


Aerial Attachments

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Animal Transformation, Blow Jobs, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hair Braiding, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Slow Build, Sparring, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-06 00:45:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 42
Words: 67,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5396417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The hand in Micah's is gone, the boy before him is gone; there’s a sweep of feathers instead, black wings slicing through the air, and then talons pressing against his arm, a shockingly delicate weight coming to rest on him." It's Micah's job to keep his focus on the ground while his partner Elon looks to the sky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Echo

The camp is bigger than Micah pictured.

He’s been told what to expect -- during the required months of preparatory training there wasn’t much else to talk about except the life they were all aiming for -- but it’s one thing to be told of dozens of tents and another to see how much space they take up. They’re in rows, at least, that much he was looking for, but each at a far greater distance from each other than he had originally pictured. The gaps between are enough to turn the camp from something compact and tidy into a sprawling circle spreading well into the trees around the sizeable clearing; Micah’s still trying to tell where the edges of the encampment are when a hand comes down at his back, shoves between his shoulderblades so hard he stumbles and nearly falls forward.

“Not what you’re used to?” There’s a laugh under the words, amusement Micah fears is at his expense, but when he looks up Captain Warnock’s expression is as clear of any emotion as it ever is. “The Corps is allowed more breathing room than most,” he says, his hand still pressing hard enough to urge Micah forward over the uneven ground.

There’s a cluster of people ahead of them, five or six standing together at a distance from the nearest tents; as they draw nearer Micah can make out individual features, pull out the caricature of faces without really noticing any one in the crowd. The ages are varied, from a girl who looks like she’s barely into her teens to a man as rugged as Micah’s father. There’s too much to take in -- a swath of golden hair, a craggy brow, the straight line of a nose or the high arch of elegant cheekbones -- and in spite of his curiosity Micah can’t manage to meet any of the half dozen pairs of golden eyes staring at him.

“You have the Wings to thank for the space,” Warnock is saying while Micah’s eyes drag themselves down to consider the dark boots each of the six is wearing, all of them identical but for size. It’s reassuring, in a way; he’s wearing the same boots, after all, is part of the Corps the same as the Wings are. And they’re new just as he is. Partners aren’t reassigned, after all; it’s the stability of that association that lets the pairs work smoothly.

“Some of them are less friendly than others.” Warnock’s hand drops, finally, letting Micah’s shoulders shift again with the anxious inhale he takes. “We might have to send Trea out to a camp of her own once her partner arrives, depending on how well they take to each other.” Micah risks a glance up; there’s a girl at the back of the group staring at Warnock instead of Micah, her Wing-gold eyes narrowing into something that looks like a threat even without the words to go with it.

Warnock doesn’t seem to notice, or if he notices doesn’t make any sign of acknowledging it. “Not you, though,” he goes on, and now Micah is looking at the group again, considering individual faces like he can somehow sense his own pre-determined compatibility without being told. There’s nothing for him to read -- just a handful of faces staring back at him in a range of ages and genders but all with those same eyes, the same emotionless consideration the Wings are known for.

“You’ll be with Elon,” Warnock says, and that’s it, no fanfare and no dramatics for the deciding moment of Micah’s life. There’s just the anticipation, watching those blank faces for a sign of recognition, and then a blink from a boy at the far end, a shake of a head like he’s coming back into himself from some far-off daydream. He’s tall, Micah sees as he steps forward with an odd half-shuffle, carrying a few inches on Micah himself and skinny enough to look delicate with the height. His hair is darker than Micah’s, skin lighter, pearl to Micah’s copper; the inky black of the curls against his pale forehead make him look otherworldly even without the uncanny glow of those eyes. Then he’s there, blinking into Micah’s stare like he’s not quite sure how to proceed, and Micah becomes abruptly aware of the tiny audience they have, feels the need to act like electricity down his spine.

Luckily, initiative isn’t something he has ever lacked.

“Hi,” he says, making an attempt at a smile. It feels forced, stretched taut around the nervousness at his eyes, but it’s an effort, at least. When he offers his hand gold eyes dip to the motion, catch at the extended fingers; the other boy’s head tilts to the side, like he’s considering what to do with this gesture, and Micah clears his throat. “My name’s Micah.”

The boy blinks. His eyelashes are as dark as his hair; they look like shadows shifting over the bright of his eyes. He lifts his hand from his side with agonizing slowness, pauses to flex his fingers as if to make sure they’re all there; when he fits his hand into Micah’s it’s with deliberate care, slotting their hands entirely together before his almost-cold fingers tighten to land at Micah’s wrist.

“He’s Elon,” Warnock says from over Micah’s shoulder. Micah wonders, suddenly, if the boy can speak, has a stomach-dropping moment of fear that he has been partnered with a Wing as silent in this form as in his other. Warnock’s voice cuts through his flush of panic: “Show him.”

Elon blinks again, that oddly slow drag of dark over gold; then his fingers tighten, just for a moment, and Micah’s vision dissolves into a haze of shadow. It’s like he’s suddenly gone blind, like he’s walked into an unseen fog; black flutters over his vision, there’s a spark of gold, and he’s just opening his mouth to shout instinctive panic when everything clears all at once. The hand in his is gone, the boy before him is gone; there’s a sweep of feathers instead, black wings slicing through the air, and then talons pressing against his arm, a shockingly delicate weight coming to rest on him.

Micah stares. He had been told, had been trained, but it’s one thing to know it can happen and another to see it in reality, the shape of a human dropping away to the frame of a bird instead. Talons in place of those familiar boots, dark wings in place of cool hands; it’s only the eyes that are the same, that gold color too bright to be any kind of natural. Micah’s heart is going too fast, shock and adrenaline warring for control over his veins; then the bird’s wings sweep out, the minimal weight lifts with one smooth stroke of air, and it’s Elon in front of him again, dark hair and thin hands and wide, wide eyes.

Micah doesn’t know what to say. He’s pretty sure his mouth is open, his shock as obvious as if he were a child instead of a graduate into the Corps, as if he hadn’t been preparing for this for the last two years of his life. But Elon tips his head, and opens his mouth, and effectively answers Micah’s earlier concern with: “Mi-cah,” careful, breaking the syllables apart like he’s pulling the name open to consider the separate components. Then his mouth curves, slow, trying out a shape practiced but not familiar as he smiles.

The expression is awkward. Micah can see the struggle, the concentration Elon is bringing to bear on this one simple attempt. But those gold eyes are bright, interest easy enough to read from those alone, and when Micah grins easy and unthinking Elon’s expression smooths into something a little more human in echo.


	2. Communicate

It doesn’t get  _really_  awkward until they reach their assigned tent.

“Get to know each other,” Warnock had said, shoving them off together; Micah kept his feet, this time, but Elon teetered precariously, threw a hand out like he expected it to offer far more air resistance than it did. He did manage to stutter-stumble his way back to balance, and by the time Micah had looked back for more instruction Warnock was already striding away and taking any hope of more detail with him.

Elon’s cough was faint, more an exercise in vocalization than enough to get someone’s attention, but Micah had jumped as if shocked, spun around with his heart hammering anticipation against his chest.

“Yes?” he had said, and maybe he sounded a little overeager, but Elon had tilted his head and said, “I can show you the tent?” with an odd upswing at the end to turn it to a question. At the time it was a relief, an escape from the too-open space of the camp and the remaining Wings’ bright eyes, and what Micah had said was “Yeah, sure, sounds great!” with just enough excess enthusiasm to turn him hot with self-consciousness.

Elon hadn’t commented on it. It was a relief then; when his silence sustained through the walk to the tent, and during Micah’s stress-stiff consideration of it, and for the handful of minutes than have elapsed since, Micah’s perspective shifted from gratitude to frustration as his embarrassment spiked to dominate his whole awareness.

He clears his throat again -- the third time in five minutes -- forces his gaze up to land at Elon again. Gold eyes are staring at him, as they have been every time Micah musters the nerve to look; this is the first time he shoves down his urge to look away, forces himself to hold their uncanny attention.

“So,” he starts, then realizes he has absolutely no idea how to follow this up. “I have no idea what we’re supposed to do.”

Elon blinks at him. “Get to know each other,” he says, an odd cadence on the words like he’s reciting them from memory.

“Yeah, I know.” Micah grimaces, reaches up to shove a hand through his hair. Elon’s eyes track the movement of his hand, follow the action down to the trailing ends curling at his shoulders. “This is really awkward, isn’t it?”

“No,” Elon says. He hesitates, a moment of uncertainty; then he moves his head to the side, back again. Micah is just beginning to realize this is intended as a headshake before Elon goes still again and speaks once more. “Are you uncomfortable?”

Micah huffs a laugh, the sound strained around nervousness but built against a grain of sincerity. “Are you  _not_?” He pushes through his hair again; it helps a little, gives him something to do with his hand and offers some modicum of physical comfort. “I get your name and see you turn into a bird and that’s it, we’re supposed to go off and establish some kind of deep bond all on our own?”

“A kite,” Elon says carefully.

Micah stops short, squints at the other. “What?”

“A black kite.” Elon’s rocking back on his heels, now; his shoulders are hunched in as they weren’t before, his chin tucking down towards his chest. “Not just a bird.”

“Oh.” Micah watches Elon collapse in on himself, drawing back as much as he can without actually taking a step away, feels the sour ache of guilt sweep through his blood. “A black kite.”

Elon lets a breath out, lifts his head partway. “Yes.”

“Got it.” Elon lets his hands fall, fingers open at his sides into as neutral a stance as he can manage. “I’m sorry.” Elon’s shoulders straighten, his shoulders easing back and open; Micah waits until the other’s gold eyes land at his face again before he tries the slowest, most sheepish smile he can muster. “I make a lot of mistakes but I only make them once. Promise.”

Elon stares at him for what feels like a very long time, his mouth a flat line of considerations and eyes too wide to read any emotion from. Micah waits, lets the moment go past awkward and into stable discomfort again, and finally is rewarded with the suggestion of a smile at Elon’s mouth.

“That is a very serious promise,” he observes, the words distant from any identifiable humor. “Can you keep it?”

Micah angles his head to the side, lets his smile twist itself into a grin instead. “You’re stuck with me, right? Guess you can find out for yourself.”

Elon’s shoulders shift, his weight rocking back forward; it’s not until his smile goes wider that Micah realizes he’s laughing, not until a moment after that that he can pick out the breathless huff of sound from the other’s throat. It’s a strange sound, not like any laughter he’s ever heard before, but the emotion is human enough to catch contagious against his self-conscious strain, to drag a crackle of sound from his own throat that only eases into more comfort as he hears it himself.

“Okay,” he says, shifts his shoulders to shake off the anxious tension that managed to collect there. “Get to know each other, huh?” It’s rhetorical, more for his own hearing than for Elon’s, but Elon is eying him oddly, like he’s considering actually answering; Micah speaks quickly to subvert the possibility of a response. “Tell me about your family. Do you have any siblings?”

“I have a sister,” Elon offers. “She was part of the Corps for two years.”

“Older?” Micah suggests. There are chairs inside the tent but he’s not sure he’s ready to duck inside yet, isn’t entirely sure Elon would follow; he sits down in front of the heavy canvas flaps instead, gets as comfortable as he can on one of the larger rocks. “You’re the youngest, then?”

“Yes.” Elon looks around; there’s a larger rock behind him, something approaching the status of a boulder. He settles onto it, draws one leg up to his chest and leans back against the brace of his arms. “She’s a Child.” The capital letter is audible, relieves Micah’s immediate confusion long enough for Elon to go on. “I’m an Egg.” Another slow smile, easing its way onto Elon’s features like he’s testing out the reaction. “Mom thought it would be easier.”

Micah clears his throat. “An Egg?” Elon blinks at him, clearly not picking up on the confusion in Micah’s tone; he coughs, clarifies. “What does that mean?”

“Oh.” Elon looks away, down the hard-packed almost-path they followed to get here; his eyes flicker bright, his mouth still clinging to the smile. “My sister was born. I hatched.”

Micah can feel his eyebrows jump up, his expression going wide with shock even polite self-control can’t catch back. Even with the catch of taloned feet against his arm still clear in his memory, with the suggestion of feathers all but visible in the ruffled locks of Elon’s hair, it’s easy to slide into thinking of him as a somewhat strange human instead of the Wing Micah knows -- has  _seen_  -- him to be.

“Right,” Micah says. Elon looks back at him, his faint smile flickering away into flatline consideration again; he brings his other knee up alongside the first, wraps an arm around them both. There’s another rush of guilt, the sense that he’s doing something wrong, that all his work as a trainee will be for naught now that he’s trying to deal with his very non-human partner; he has to reach for calm, has to shut his eyes and take a deep breath to steady himself again.

“Are you upset?” Elon asks suddenly, the question falling into the darkness of Micah’s shut eyes while he’s still trying to ease the stress burning through his veins.

Micah opens his eyes, stares at the ground for a minute; then he sighs, admits “Only with myself,” without looking up. It’s a little easier to talk without making eye contact; he aims his words at the ground, his attention wandering over the edge of the rock Elon is sitting on instead of the other himself. “I’m supposed to be ready to be a functioning member of the Corps and I can’t even figure out how to talk to my partner without offending you.”

“I’m not offended,” Elon says. He shifts; when Micah looks up he’s letting his hold on his knees go, leaning a little farther back from the wall his legs make. “I like you.” A hint of a smile, then, enough to untwist some of the tension in Micah’s shoulders.

“You don’t even know me,” Micah points out, self-deprecation giving him an easy road to a grin. He kicks a leg out, forces his shoulders to relax; Elon watches him without saying anything, his eyes trailing the movement of Micah’s foot. “I could be an awful person and you’d still be stuck with me.”

Elon’s smile goes a little bit wider. “You don’t seem awful.”

Micah laughs. “Tell that to my siblings. They never have anything good to say about me.”

Elon’s eyes are bright, fixed on Micah again like he’s the single point of focus in the world. It’s intimidating, to be watched with such intensity, but he’s leaning forward from his perch, his curiosity clear even in the angle of his chin.

“Tell me,” Elon says, and Micah does. There’s a lot to tell; what seemed straightforward at first unravels into childhood stories under the attention of Elon’s stare, years of competition and sibling rivalry turning into the most entertaining stories Micah can wind out of growing up with a younger brother and sister. It gets easier to talk with each recollection, Elon’s smile coming easier with each of Micah’s laughs, until Micah doesn’t even notice that he’s stretched his legs out in front of him in sprawled-wide comfort, doesn’t notice that Elon has unfolded his own and is leaning forward so far he is in some danger of falling off the rock.

It’s easier, after that.


	3. Space

The tent feels small.

Micah knows this is objectively not true. From the outside the canvas shapes scattered around the camp look enormous, far larger than what space would be technically necessary to house two usually-human sized tenants. Even his brief glance inside earlier promised reassuring elbow room, the sleeping back laid out on either side of the tent allowing space enough for more than another between them and gap enough at the foot of each for whatever few personal belongings they may have with them. But with the fall of night outside the canvas walls and Micah’s body suddenly going awkward and clumsy like he’s in training again, the space that seemed so large before feels claustrophobically close.

“I’m going to go out to get some water,” he offers while Elon is stripping off the shirt bearing the Corps insignia over the shoulder to be replaced with a lighter undershirt for sleeping. “Do you need anything?”

Elon shakes his head, that slow-careful motion again like he’s thinking through the action. His hair is tangled over his forehead; he lifts a hand, smooths over the dark locks while he blinks gold at Micah. “No.”

“Alright,” Micah says, clearing his throat of a needless cough. “I’ll be right back.”

The walk helps. It’s short, just down to the central clearing where dinner was served and back, but the faint murmur of sound from the other tents is soothing, a welcome reminder that Micah’s not the only one attempting to make a friend on command, that everyone in the Corps has experienced this as some point. He stretches out his shoulders while he’s walking back, working out the anxious strain that has collected along his spine, and when he pulls the tent flap back aside to rejoin Elon he has a grin ready to meet the other’s steady gaze.

“It’s quiet out there,” he says, dropping to sit just inside the tent so he can work his boots off and keep their associated dirt outside. “I thought there’d be at least a few people still up but I guess everyone’s exhausted.” He looks over; Elon’s watching him, his mouth absent a smile of recognition, but he has his legs crossed instead of tucked up in front of his chest, his shoulders falling into a relaxed curve. “Do you usually sleep this early?”

Elon’s head tips to the side, his blink is slow and considering. His eyelashes look darker against the pale of his cheeks. “Is this early?”

“For me.” Micah sets his boots aside, lets the tent flap fall shut behind him. With the flap shut the lamp hung in the back corner casts a gold spill of light to illuminate the shadowy interior. “I’ve been used to staying up a few hours after sundown while I was training as a recruit.”

“Oh.” Elon’s still watching Micah, gold eyes tracing his movements with as much attention as if he’s attempting to put them to memory. “Weren’t you tired?”

“Nah.” Micah unfastens the front of his uniform shirt, sheds the fabric; it’s felt comfortable all day, but the loss of the weight is enough to feel like a relief now that he’s in a space he recognizes as off-duty. “I’d skip breakfast and get an extra hour or two of sleep.”

“Oh.” Elon tilts back, away from his crossed legs; with his hands curled at his ankles the motion turns into a rock instead of a lean. “I sleep with the sun.”

Micah grins, a self-deprecating turn to the expression he thinks might be lost on Elon but is still worth attempting. “You have good habits,” he admits. “I should probably pick up your schedule than ruining your routine with mine.”

Micah thinks he’s getting the hang of Elon’s smile, having seen it a few times now; it takes a few seconds to fully hit, brightening from shy hesitance into full-blown delight, spreading over the smooth lines of his features until it can curl into the corners of his eyes and dip his lashes into puddles of shadow at the edges. “Okay,” is all he says, but his smile is answer enough even before he lets his ankles go and unfolds himself before reaching for the edge of his sleeping bag.

Micah almost doesn’t ask. It seems too forward, in some vague way, like he might misstep on unknown ground like he did earlier. But Elon’s shoulders are slack with comfort, his smile as slow to fade as it was to blossom, and it seems strange to tiptoe around the subject central to their entire partnership. So he braces himself, hunches his shoulders against the effect of stress, and blurts, “Do you always sleep as a human?” a little more loudly than he intended.

Elon looks up from the blankets, eyes wide and clear of any trace of offense. He looks at Micah’s face, to his shoulders, the knee he is drawing up towards him; and Micah can see the comfort evaporate from his expression, his body drawing in on itself as if in defense for some unstated threat. It’s only when he sees the tension in his shoulders mirrored so clear in Elon’s that Micah realizes what he’s doing and can think to backtrack.

“Sorry,” he says, too fast and too strained, lets his leg relax out and tips his shoulders back. It makes him feel weirdly exposed, his body language all out of sync with the stress in his thoughts, but Elon’s watching him move, unknotting his own tension in time with him, and that makes the action easier. “I’m a little nervous still, I guess.”

“You don’t need to be,” Elon says towards Micah’s knees. He reaches out to brace a hand against the blankets, leans sideways to press against the support.

“I’m worried I’m going to offend you,” Micah admits. “I screwed up earlier, didn’t I?”

Elon’s eyes drift back up to his face, linger against his expression.

“You only make mistakes once,” he says, mouth tugging at a smile. “I won’t be offended the first time.”

Micah grins. “Thanks,” he deadpans. “That’s not stressful at all.”

Elon’s smile catches, lingers against his mouth a moment; then he shakes his head, sheds the expression with the movement, and says “No, I don’t,” with as much clarity as if the interlude between Micah’s original question and his answer didn’t exist.

It takes Micah a moment to catch up; then he does, huffs a laugh as much at his own expense as at Elon’s. “Do you prefer one form or another?”

Elon rolls his shoulders, shifts like he’s suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin. “Human is...odd,” he says, picking the words with care. “Easier for communication, but less comfortable than kite form.” His mouth twists, a flicker of frustration passing over his features. “We were supposed to sleep as humans during training, to keep us in practice before we were assigned partners. Not everyone did, though.”

“Did you?” Micah asks, genuinely curious in the answer.

“Yes,” Elon says, though he’s frowning, hunching in over himself as Micah watches. “The dreams were the worst part.”

“Nightmares?”

Elon shakes his head, faster this time, like it’s unthinking. “The  _detail_. It was like not sleeping at all, at first.”

“Oh.” Micah considers this. “Do you not dream when you’re...transformed?”

Elon’s shoulder comes up, something between a shrug and a hunch. “It’s different,” he says, his tone flat like any attempt to explain the gap in experience is doomed before it begins. “Everything is different.”

Even with the oddities of Elon’s mannerisms, Micah can tell when a conversation is over. “I bet,” he says, trying on a careful smile; then, just as carefully, “I don’t mind if you want to transform for the night.”

Elon’s eyes are brighter when they open wide with shock. He makes no attempt at all to hide his surprise; Micah can see the part of his lips on the reaction, the startled slump of his shoulders as he tips back. “You don’t?”

“Nah,” Micah says, pushing back the blankets of his own sleeping bag. “Doesn’t make much of a difference to me, right? I’d rather you were comfortable.” He glances up, flashes a grin towards Elon’s golden stare. “Besides, it was only until you had a partner, right? I’ll make sure you remember how to be human. Kind of my job, isn’t it?”

Elon blinks. Then he ducks his head into a nod, closes the startled part of his lips.

“Yes,” he says, and only then does he smile, the very corners of his mouth turning up into softness. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” Micah says, rocks up onto his knees so he can reach the lamp. “I’ve got the light, go ahead.”

Elon doesn’t wait for anything further. There’s a shift of dark eyelashes, a shift of narrow shoulders; then a gust of air, a rustle as of wind through trees, and there’s a black kite where there once was a boy, ruffling its feathers as if settling into comfortable clothes. The eyes are recognizable, if nothing else is; Micah’s not sure Elon knows him in this form, isn’t sure how much speech he can understand, but he still attempts a smile as he reaches to draw the lantern’s door open.

“Night, Elon,” he says, gentle on the words as he is in his movements to reach for the light.

Gold eyes are still watching him as he blows the flame into darkness.


	4. Certainty

“This is  _not_  a competition,” Warnock reiterates. “You have all succeeded in making it this far already.” His smile, Micah thinks, is meant to be reassuring. It is not. “You’re in the Corps now. We do not  _let_  members fail. This exercise is meant to establish a starting point for your own development, to let you know how hard you will have to work to improve to a combat-functional level.” He stops his steady pacing in front of the group -- just over a dozen as Micah counts, all of them spread out enough that it’s difficult to determine who are partners even with the tell of gold eyes to give away the Wings from the Grounds.

“Communication is the goal,” Warnock says again, raising his voice enough that even when he turns his back the words are perfectly clear. “The Wings will head east, towards the target. Grounds, although in active patrol you will be moving as well, for today your only goal is to transmit the information you receive from your partner upon his or her return.” He turns back around, sweeps his gaze over the group slowly enough that his eyes catch with every stare turned on him. “And bring the report back to me.”

“Just tell you the information?” a boy at the back of the group asks. Micah recognizes his voice, knows his face and name when he glances back: Talim, one of the chattier of the other recruits. He had been in some danger of dropping out of the recruitment program originally, before he started extra training to compensate for his lack of initial experience. “Is it that difficult?”

Warnock doesn’t answer him directly. He looks to Talim’s partner, a Wing far younger than Micah or Talim himself; he’s perhaps thirteen, skinny in the shoulders and knees with the first growth spurt of adolescence.

“You haven’t transformed since yesterday,” Warnock says, rather than asks.

The Wing’s expression darkens, his mouth sliding into a frown; it’s remarkably natural, comes far more easily than any of the expressions Micah has won from Elon thus far. “We were told to keep in human form through the nights.”

Warnock shrugs, dismissing the protest with a tilt of his head. “Until you were partnered,” he clarifies. “If you had transformed you might have a better sense of the challenge in this.”

Micah glances at Elon, his forehead creasing into confusion. Sleeping to the ruffle of feathers instead of the rhythm of another human’s breathing was odd but not distracting; by the time he woke up this morning Elon had long since transformed back, was dressed and waiting for him with a smile formed around what Micah suspects to be several minutes of waiting. He has no idea what Warnock’s talking about, no guess of how that could relate to this. Elon looks at him, his eyes clear of either confusion or obvious comprehension; Micah can’t get a read on them before Warnock is talking again.

“Refrain from making baseless guesses instead of an actual report,” he says, attention now pinning each of the humans in place. “Your partner’s understanding should be a higher priority to you than impressing me. I’m sure you all realize that.” There’s a beat, a moment for the weight of his words to sink in; then he’s turning away, striding to a short distance as he waves his hand. “Go ahead.”

It takes a moment for anyone to react. For the first few seconds there’s just silence, stunned confusion reigning over the group; then there’s a “ _Shit_ ,” clear in the quiet, and an implosion of air, the rustle of wind through feathers and a burst of movement in Micah’s periphery. The first Wing is in the air just like that, wingbeats ahead of anyone else; then two more, in quick succession, and Micah is turning to Elon, his gaze locking onto wide golden eyes.

“Go,” Micah says, too softly to be heard over the sudden burst of sound around them, but Elon must be watching his mouth instead of listening to his voice, or maybe he just read the desire for action from the strained hunch of Micah’s shoulders. The boy vanishes, replaced by a sweep of wings and an impression of shadow more than the physical form of the kite he’s become, and Micah looks up to watch Elon ascend on smooth wingbeats like he’s dragging himself aloft. There’s another flutter of movement, another Wing lifting off, and then the group goes quiet as the last two pairs stop the frantic rush of conversation they’ve been in as the Wing of each transforms. Micah watches the stragglers flutter over the height of the trees, vanish from sight with startling rapidity, and then there’s quiet again, just the humans left staring skyward in silence.

“It’s not far,” Warnock calls from where he’s settled himself atop one of the shoulder-high boulders at the edge of the clearing. “The first should be back in a few minutes.”

Micah looks around. Almost everyone else looks as lost as he feels, either staring at the sky with nervous attention or glancing at the others in a sheepish attempt to gauge the appropriate reaction. The only exception is Lia at the back; she has her head tipped down, her eyes shut, her shoulders relaxed like she’s meditating or thinking over a hard problem. Micah has no idea what she’s doing, doesn’t want to look like an idiot attempting to imitate her even if she looks sure of herself. He looks back up instead, scanning the treetops in search of the dark-patterned wings he’s learning to recognize.

The minutes stretch on, pulling unreasonably long under the tension of the watchers; then “There!” comes a shout, and one of the Wings is diving in, swooping in a streak of white that collapses into human form just before the ground.

“Tell me!” the Wing’s partner is demanding, rushing forward to grab at her elbow. “Tell me, what was the message?” Every Ground in the clearing but Lia is watching, eyes trained on the Wing; and the Wing shouts panic, a burst of sound carrying no meaning at all as she tries to wrench her arm away from her partner. Everyone draws back in instinctive retreat from the startling reaction, and then another Wing is landing, another set of wings converting to arms. Micah just has time to see Talim come forward as his partner drops to the ground like he’s forgotten how to stand when a shadow at the corner of his eye catches his attention, half-learned familiarity pulling his gaze sideways, and Elon is stumbling towards him, unsteady on his feet and reaching out for support Micah isn’t expecting to give.

“Elon!” Micah blurts, grabbing at Elon’s shirt to hold him steady. Elon blinks, his expression blank of recognition; when his eyes come into focus he flinches, pushes away hard enough that it’s only Micah’s hold on him that keeps him close by, that keeps them both from collapsing. There’s no understanding in Elon’s startled stare, no coherency in the gasp on his lips; just panic, tense in his shoulders and curling in his fingers as he shoves at Micah’s shoulders. For a moment there’s blind adrenaline in Micah’s veins, the desperate attempt to keep his hold on something wild and frightened; then his brain catches up with his reflexes, tells him to let his grip go, and he stumbles back, holding both hands up palm-up as Elon draws to an uncertain stop.

“Elon,” Micah says again, carefully this time, ignoring the distraction of sound around them. There’s movement, someone heading towards Warnock, but he doesn’t turn; Elon’s eyes keep skittering away and he needs to hold the other’s attention. “Hey, Elon.” A glance, a pause; Elon’s watching him, now, his breathing visibly slowing as his gaze comes into focus. Micah offers a hand, moving carefully; after a heartbeat Elon reaches out to match, closing his fingers around Micah’s wrist instead of his hand.

“The message,” Micah says, forcing his voice into level calm in spite of a burst of sound to his left, movement by Warnock’s rock. “Elon, you have a message for me.”

Elon blinks, shakes his head like he’s dragging his thoughts into order. “Message,” he repeats, like he’s reaching for speech more than asking for clarification. “ _Micah_ , the--the message.”

“What is it?” Micah asks, holding Elon’s gaze as it steadies into clarity.

“Blue,” Elon says, clear and certain; then he blinks, forehead creasing, shakes his head again. “Two...twenty.”

“Blue and twenty,” Micah repeats, but Elon shakes his head at this as well.

“Forty,” he says, clearer this time. “And…” He makes a face, lifts a hand like he’s reaching for something. His wrist angles, he points to the left. “A direction.”

“North?” Micah guesses. “Blue, forty, north?”

Elon nods, slowly, forehead still creased. Micah sighs relief, turns towards Warnock as he draws his hand free of Elon’s hold.

“Wait,” Elon says from behind him. “Wait, no.”

Micah looks back. Elon is reaching for his hand again, fingers catching at the sleeve of his uniform. His eyebrows are drawn together, his mouth working like he’s trying out the shape of words on his tongue.

“Not north,” he says, and points again, southeast this time. “A direction but--”

Micah stares at Elon’s hand for a moment, mind scrabbling over possible alternative answers. Then:

“Left,” he says, and all the stress evaporates from Elon’s features at once.

Micah doesn’t wait for Elon’s nod before he’s moving towards Warnock. The relief on the other’s face is certainty enough.


	5. Reading

It takes Micah most of the walk back to the camp to decide what it is he wants to say. It’s not failure hanging over his head; in the end they did as well as most of the rest of the group, and dodged the ‘fatal communication error’ Talim and his partner suffered, which resulted in a wrong message and Warnock calling them out on the mistake in front of the group as a whole. They’re  _average_ , which is something between reassuring and disappointing, and it’s partially that that keeps Micah’s mouth shut and head down on the walk back. The rest of it is the vague sense of guilt, that Elon is bearing the effects of a performance due largely to Micah’s own failings, and it’s that, ultimately, that straightens his shoulders and lifts his head.

“I’m sorry,” Micah says, carefully deliberate on the words as he looks over at Elon. Elon’s watching him already; Micah’s not sure how long he’s been staring, how much of his own inner monologue was clear in his shoulders or in the concentration on his face. He supposes it doesn’t make a difference, really, now that he has the words to put to it anyway. “I let you down as your partner.”

Elon blinks, tilts back like he’s been startled. There’s no comprehension in his eyes; Micah isn’t surprised when the first words he says are, “Let me down?” like he doesn’t understand what Micah means by the sounds in his throat.

“Yeah.” Micah tries a smile, turns it as soft and apologetic as he can manage. He wants to look away, duck his head to hide the self-conscious color in his cheeks, but Elon is still staring at him, and he doesn’t want to break the eye contact. “I was supposed to translate for you, right? I’m not much good if you can’t count on me to understand what you’re trying to say.”

Elon is the one to look away, now. His head tips down, his chin turning away, and for a moment all Micah can see of him is the dark hair curling at the back of his neck, the slump of his shoulders like he’s hiding behind them.

“I didn’t know that would happen,” he says, clear enough for Micah to hear even with his head turned away. “I haven’t tried to communicate so soon after a long transformation before.”

Micah watches the curve of Elon’s shoulders, tries to pick out the most important question of the dozens in his mind. “Not ever?”

The shoulders hunch in farther, Elon’s head dips lower. “No,” he says. “It’s easier, with other Wings, and when I came here they said everything was waiting until I had a partner.”

“Oh,” Micah says. There’s a weird tingle along his spine; he’s not sure if it’s pride or stress or maybe some combination of both at once. “And then I have no idea what I’m doing either.”

Elon looks back at him, a tilt of his head that barely lets Micah glimpse his features. His eyes are bright in the shadows. “I wasn’t thinking straight,” Elon says, less like an admission and more as a statement of fact. “It was -- I was thinking about the sky, still, when I landed. I didn’t recognize you at first.”

That much Micah could see, knew clear enough from that first startled withdrawal when he had reached out. He doesn’t say anything -- isn’t sure  _what_  to say -- and Elon takes a breath, lets it out as he goes on talking.

“I didn’t fit in my own head,” he says, looking away from Micah’s face and back at the path. “It’s always strange, shifting from one form to another, but when I reached for the words they just...weren’t there.”

“Oh,” Micah says. Elon’s shoulders are easing a little, but his head is down again, now, and Micah’s not sure how to get him to look back up. “That sounds awful.”

“It was.” Elon’s words are going softer, dipping lower in volume as his steps slow; Micah has to lean in closer just to hear him. “I should have known that would happen. I could have told you before today.”

“Yeah,” Micah says, like he’s really considering the idea. The knot of guilt in his chest is tightening out of its initial ache, turning itself into something diamond-hard and determined; when he tilts his head back his chin comes up, his shoulders angle back, his breathing fills the full extent of his lungs. “So what?”

Elon looks up at him. His eyes are dimmed by shadows, their bright glow tamped down by the fall of his hair and the weight of his eyelashes, but they come open a little wider when he sees Micah, a hint of curious confusion making it past the weight of stress in his expression.

“So what,” Micah says again, a little more certain in the words this time. “We missed out on a day of practice, or planning, or whatever we decided to do, right?” He tilts his head to consider Elon, to see the tension unwinding against his mouth. “We spent all day yesterday getting to know each other a little. If this is supposed to be about communication, maybe that was the right decision anyway.” He shrugs, overdoing the motion into a caricature of easy disregard, and Elon’s shoulders loosen, tilt into a suggestion of calm. “Might be I couldn’t have gotten anything from you at all if I couldn’t read you at least a little.”

“Read me?” Elon repeats. He sounds sincerely curious; when Micah glances over his eyes are bright on interest, his head tilting to the side in what Micah is certain is an unconscious gesture.

Micah offers a grin, the brightest he can manage, watches Elon’s gaze light on his mouth and Elon’s lips tug into the suggestion of a reciprocating smile. “Yep,” he says. “You’re feeling a little better now, right?”

Elon’s smile vanishes, his shoulders hunch protectively again; for a moment Micah is coldly sure he’s misjudged his timing, offered confidence too soon and ruined what warmth he was winning. But then Elon blinks, forehead creasing as he considers, and his shoulders relax again. Micah can all but see ruffled feathers settling back into place.

“Yes,” Elon says, sounding faintly confused at his own answer. “I am.”

Micah’s smile is completely unforced, this time, carried on relief and satisfaction at once. “I thought so.” He tilts his head back, looks up at the sky overhead. The blue is pale, washed almost white by the heat in the air; Micah tries to imagine what it must be like to climb towards that pale arch overhead, to have the world be laid out below him like a map, the concerns of the ground fading away with distance.

He can’t reach the awareness. It’s too far, too impossible for him to frame from his landlocked imagination. But when he looks sideways he can see that same hazy distance in Elon’s eyes, that same incomprehensible perspective in the careful curve of Elon’s mouth, and if he can’t understand the sweep of the sky, he thinks he still might be able to make sense out of his partner.

“Come on,” Micah says, turns right instead of continuing on to their tent. “Let’s see if there’s anything to eat for lunch.”

He’s not surprised when Elon follows without protest.


	6. Advantage

“Get  _back_  here,” Micah mock-growls, the tug of a grin at his mouth completely undoing whatever sincere frustration his tone might have. “You didn’t tell me you were so  _fast_.”

“I’ll be at the disadvantage if you catch me,” Elon says, his words distant and distracted. He’s not even looking at Micah’s face, no more than he has since they started sparring; his eyes are flickering over the other’s entire body, from shoulder to wrist to hip to knee, only occasionally skimming over Micah’s expression and even then only distantly, as to read confirmation from a well-known page.

“Doesn’t matter if I can’t catch you.” Micah moves fast, without letting his eyes flicker to Elon’s wrist to give him away, but Elon’s moving as soon as he does, sooner, skipping sideways so light on his feet he makes gravity look tenuous in the space around him.

“I won’t win by dodging.” Elon ducks, this time, his downward motion enough to miss the casual swing of Micah’s arm and yet somehow matched with a sidestep that avoids the secondary attack hidden behind the feint and dodges the open palm aimed at getting a fistful of his clothes. “Your eventual victory is a guarantee.”

“Thanks,” Micah says, aiming for sarcasm that comes out on the verge of a laugh. “That really helps me catch my breath.” Elon veers sideways as Micah turns, circling in behind him; it would be a good opportunity for a counterattack, but none is forthcoming. There’s just the scuff of boots in the dirt as Micah pivots around to face his partner again, and Elon is waiting for him, shoulders and limbs as relaxed as if he weren’t in the middle of sparring practice.

“Have you ever done this before?” Micah has to ask, taking a step back so he can square up his stance and ease the tension of expectation out of his shoulders. “You’re just playing with me, aren’t you.”

Elon shakes his head. His hair flutters with the motion, a few dark locks catching in the sweat at his forehead; it’s nice to see that he’s at least a little bit winded, even if he still  looks remarkably calm. “I’ve never sparred before.”

“Oh good.” Micah throws his hands up in a show of exasperation, the motion of surrender without the truth of it. “So I’m getting mocked by a complete amateur, huh?”

He’s teasing, undercutting the bite of the words with the laugh on his tongue and the easy swing of his shoulders. There’s a smile to match, too, a grin pulling at the corner of his lips as he lets his hands fall back to his sides. Elon’s eyes come up, caught by the motion of Micah’s hands or the bright of his smile; Micah isn’t sure which, and it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that Elon is looking at his face, gold eyes wide and almost-startled in their focus, and that means he’s  _not_  looking at Micah’s hands.

Elon’s wrist is weirdly fragile under Micah’s hold. For a moment he almost loses his focus, almost snatches his hand away for fear of shattering some glass-thin joint or bruising the soft give of Elon’s skin, but he’s moving before he has a chance to process the impulse, stepping forward and ducking in to shove his shoulder against Elon’s chest. Elon’s breath rushes out of him in a sudden startled burst of sound, and then they’re both falling to the hard-packed ground under them. Micah gets his other hand out in time to catch his weight and keep from crushing Elon completely, but he’s still moving even as Elon’s eyes go wide and startled-sightless with the impact, letting his hold on thin wrist go so he can press his forearm against Elon’s chest and pin him down instead.

“Oh,” Elon says, blinking hard to bring his eyes back into focus on Micah’s face.

“I win,” Micah says. “I think, anyway. Unless you can get up.” He’s not really pushing very hard; he’s sure he could twist free of this level of force were their positions reversed, even if Elon held the same advantage of mass over him he currently maintains. But he’s afraid to push harder when he can feel Elon’s ribs shift against his hold with every inhale the other takes, and for all that a victory would be nice it’s not worth an accidental injury within their first week.

“I don’t think so,” Elon says. He still looks startled, a little dazed like he’s not completely sure what’s happened; when he pushes against the ground the force isn’t much, and comes straight up against Micah’s hold where it’s easy to counter.

“Not like that you can’t,” Micah agrees, draws his weight back to rock over his knees. Elon takes a moment to sit up himself; when he lifts a hand it’s to drag his fingers through his hair and rumple the dark up off his forehead. He shakes his head, shifts his shoulders like he’s shrugging himself back into place, and it’s only then that he blinks back into focus on Micah.

“How did you do that?” he asks, words slow and deliberate on the sincerity in his throat. “You grabbed my wrist and then I was falling.”

Micah grins, tips himself back so he can get his feet under him and lift himself back to standing. “It’s about balance,” he says, extends a hand to where Elon is still sitting and staring up at him. “Might have the advantage there, too. I’m pretty sure I’ve spent longer on my feet than you have, what with being stuck with just one form.”

Elon gazes at him, forehead creasing into a line of confusion. “I have very good balance even while I’m in human form.”

Micah lets his grin drag wider. “I’m teasing you,” he says, leaning in closer with the hand Elon still hasn’t taken. Elon’s gaze drops down to his outstretched fingers, and Micah says, “Come on, I’ll let you try it on me,” while the other is still visibly considering the prospect of taking the offer.

Elon looks up at him for a moment. The tension across his forehead has eased, his gaze has dropped back into his usual focused attention; he looks at Micah’s eyes, mouth, the angle of his shoulders, back down to his hand. Then he smiles, faint and careful and deliberate, and lifts his hand to fit his fingers against Micah’s and let himself be pulled to his feet.

By the time Micah lets Elon’s hand go, Elon is smiling as wide as he is.


	7. Chance

They have found a routine by the end of their first week. There’s always something to do during the day, enough to keep them busy without being overwhelmed, and Elon’s smiles come easier with each passing hour, until Micah doesn’t have to think about it to win a reaction from his partner. He’s spent all the months in training wondering if it would be weird, to become friends with someone on command as soon as he receives his assignment, but in practice it’s a simple thing, the action as easy and unthinking as the way they fall into step together on their way back to the tent from dinner. Micah keeps up the conversation, if it can really be called that; he’s speaking to fill the quiet more than anything else, his words thrown up to the darkening sky like sparks from the perpetual fire in the middle of the camp, their meaning forgotten even to himself within moments of being offered. And Elon listens, going quiet like he’s anticipating turning into his other form, like he’s thinking in terms of feathers and wind currents while Micah chatters about tomorrow’s sparring practice and offers ideas for their next practice transformation.

“What if I brought a dictionary?” he asks as he tugs the tent flap aside, holds it open while Elon folds to sit at the end of his sleeping bag so he can unlace his boots. “And then you could just point at words, what about that.”

Elon chokes a little burst of sound, something Micah is learning to recognize as a laugh, smiles at the ground while he pulls one shoe off and starts on the other. “It takes me longer to remember how to read than how to speak.”

“Ah,” Micah says, like he’s only just thought of it, making a show of turning the statement over in his mind. “Huh. I guess that’s another reject.”

“We’ll find something that works.” Elon slides back into the dark of the tent, his eyes glowing faintly gold in the shadows as he reaches to strike the lamp into flame. Micah works his shoes free in the meantime; by the time he’s moving inside and letting the tent flap block out the rest of the world Elon has the lamp lit, is drawing back to his side of the tent with the hunched shoulders that always make Micah feel vaguely like he’s done something wrong.

“Sure we will,” he says, turning himself around to face Elon squarely. “We’re practically pros, by now.”

Elon’s shoulders ease a little, if not entirely, his chin coming up so he can blink at Micah. When his mouth curves it’s so slow it takes Micah a few seconds to recognize the expression as a smile.

“We are not,” he corrects, but the smile says he understood the deliberate exaggeration on Micah’s words.

“Maybe  _I’m_  not,” Micah allows. He braces an arm behind him, leans back so he can kick a leg over the width of the tent and encroach by a few careful inches on Elon’s side. “Pretty sure you’ve got the whole turning-into-a-kite thing down pat by now.”

“That’s not all there is to it,” Elon protests, but it’s weak even leaving his lips, and he’s smiling wider now as he ducks his chin to watch the shift of Micah’s foot.

“Seems pretty complicated to me,” Micah says. “ _I_  definitely couldn’t pull it off.”

“Mm,” Elon hums, sounding like he’s giving the idea actual thought. “Maybe not.” He rocks back a little, unfolds some of the tension out of his shoulders. “I don’t think you could manage a kite, anyway. Maybe a dove, though.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then: “Are you  _teasing_  me?” Micah asks, starting to grin before he’s finished the rhetorical question. “You’re getting better at that.”

Elon glances up, his smile flashing bright for a moment. “Thank you.”

“I guess I can let you reign victorious for the night,” Micah allows, moving to tug his shirt up over his head in expectation of sleep. It catches against his hair, the curls at his shoulders twisting into a knot with the laces, and for a moment he’s occupied in working himself free of his own inadvertent tangle. Elon has no such trouble, is down to undershirt and pants by the time Micah has extricated himself; when he looks up Elon is watching him with the odd intent focus he always offers before bed, like he’s waiting for permission.

“You can change whenever you want,” Micah says now, like he always does, tossing his shirt towards the corner and grinning at Elon’s bright attention. “It’s your tent too, you know.”

Elon doesn’t speak, as he never does; he just blinks, lashes turning to shadows across his cheeks, and then there’s a rush of air, the burst of dark to which Micah is becoming accustomed, and the kite is next to him, fluttering dark wings into alignment as Elon settles itself into place.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the warning,” Micah continues, his own movements stilled as he watches feathers fall into place, Elon easing himself into his new form. “It’d be kind of weird to have human-you here one moment and then kite-you there the next.” He tilts his head to the side, considers the kite now watching him with eyes as gold as those he’s more familiar with. “Can you understand what I’m saying like that?”

There’s no response. Micah isn’t sure what he was expecting, a nod or a chirp or something else, but whatever it is he doesn’t get it. There’s just kite-Elon watching him, the steady consideration of those eyes looking far more wild in this form than he ever does as a human. It’s the only thing about him that Micah can easily recognize; the rest is all smooth feathers, dark-patterned wings sweeping into lines far more elegant than Micah can achieve with the limitation of elbows and awkwardly long legs.

“You’re really beautiful like this,” Micah says idly, not even thinking over the words until he hears them and huffs a laugh at himself. “Not that you’re not attractive as a human,” he amends. “But I like the feathers too.” He lifts a hand, reaches out -- and pauses a few inches from contact, self-preservation and those half-wild eyes getting the better of his unthinking impulse.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, staring into dark-lined gold like maybe he can find some fragment of communication if he looks hard enough. “Would you mind?” He pauses, waits for confirmation that doesn’t come. “Do you have any idea what I’m asking?” Still nothing, just another ruffle of wings inches away from his outstretched hand. Micah contemplates his options, weighs the minimal benefit to acting now against the risk to his fingers if kite-Elon decides to take offense to the contact; then he looks at the sleek pattern across smooth wings, feels the impulse to touch tremble through his hand, and decides his fingertips aren’t  _that_  important after all.

“I really hope you don’t bite me,” he says, and reaches out over the remaining gap.

Elon doesn’t bite him. He does flutter, shuffling his feathers in an all-over shiver at the contact, but after he’s resettled himself Micah’s fingers are pressing against the smooth dark of his wing and there’s no sign of panic in those unreadable eyes. Micah slides his touch down farther, lets the soft of Elon’s feathers catch and slide across his skin, and his heart is going faster but his smile is going wider, delight rising warm and thrilled into his veins.

“Really,” he says, turning his hand over to stroke his knuckles down the midline of Elon’s back, between the folded weight of his wings. “Really, really beautiful.”

There’s no change in the gold stare Elon has fixed on him; Micah knows there’s not, knows there’s nothing but uncomprehending focus and the occasional blink. So he can’t explain why he’s suddenly very sure Elon would be smiling in human form, the shy careful expression that is the hardest of all to win from him; he just is, certain right down to his core, and he doesn’t need the confirmation to start smiling himself.


	8. Implicit

Micah wakes up first the next morning.

He’s been getting up earlier and earlier with each passing day, his schedule resetting itself around his new partner’s preferred sleep pattern. By now he can be mostly-functional even before he’s had the breakfast he is learning to look forward to, can come into coherency in the few minutes it takes him to get properly dressed and lace his boots up. But today he beats Elon to it, is stirring and rolling over and up while the other is still holding to his transformed state.

It’s a strange thing to see Elon sleeping in his kite form. In the evenings it’s too dark, and Micah too tired, to see the other settling in to rest, and before now there’s been a steady gold stare and a careful smile waiting for him when he wakes up. But this time there’s wings, soft feathers fluffed into unconscious comfort and a head tucked under one dark-patterned wing, and Micah goes still, watching the barely-visible pattern of Elon’s breathing and feeling like he’s accidentally intruding on something private. He’s afraid to move and wake Elon, afraid to stay quiet and be caught staring; he’s still vacillating between his options when there’s a ruffle of feathers, a sudden burst of motion, and Elon is blinking at him, looking startled and abruptly alert.

“Sorry,” Micah says automatically, self-consciousness turning itself into a laugh at his lips. “I wasn’t sure if I should wake you.”

Elon stares at him for a moment, gold eyes bright and clear and uncomprehending; then there’s a rush of air, the pressure jumping higher for a moment to gust against the inside walls of the space, and it’s a boy blinking at Micah from the other side of the tent instead of a kite.

Micah’s smile eases onto relief, something of routine reforming itself even as Elon shakes his head and blinks wide-eyed confusion in his direction. “Hey there,” he says, trying for verbal communication again as Elon’s eyes skip to his mouth, his shoulders, his hands, like he’s not quite sure where to look. “I guess I beat you to the morning for once.”

“I,” Elon says, drawing back an inch like he’s trying to get a read on Micah’s position in the tent. “Uh.” He looks half-panicked, looking from Micah’s face to his own hands like he can’t figure out which form he’s in, and Micah can see the stress climbing into his shoulders, hunching him in over himself as he breathes faster.

“Hey,” Micah says again, reaching out before he can think that this might not be the best decision, that Elon might still be operating on kite-instinct and not human reactions. But his hand is out, and Elon’s not flinching away, and then his fingers brush against tense shoulder and Elon takes a sharp inhale of air Micah can feel in the enclosed space. Gold eyes come up to meet his, Elon’s gaze holding and steadying, and Micah smiles, presses his thumb against the sleep-warm of Elon’s skin through his thin undershirt.

“It’s okay,” he says, as gently as he knows how. “It’s okay, Elon, sorry for startling you.”

Elon shakes his head, but it looks like it might be intended as a negation this time instead of just a frantic movement. His gaze is clearing, too, his mouth shifting like he’s trying on different words but not letting the sounds break free, his shoulders easing out of that first flash of startled panic.

“It’s okay, yeah?” Micah asks, flashes his smile wider as he lets his hand slide down Elon’s arm to smooth comfort against the other’s skin. “It’s fine.”

“Fine,” Elon echoes, the word soft in the back of his throat, and he’s starting to smile now, the corner of his mouth warming itself into calm. His eyes jump up, land on Micah’s hair instead of his face; Micah can see his focus narrow, his throat working on something he doesn’t or can’t say. When he sees Elon’s fingers shift against the blanket under him, he takes the risk of answering the unspoken question.

“Do you want to touch my hair?” he asks, watching Elon’s eyes skip over the morning-tangled locks. “Or am I--” He cuts himself off at Elon’s abrupt nod, the tilt of his chin so fast it telegraphs relief as much as agreement. “Yeah?” He ducks his chin down, looks up through his lashes to watch startled appreciation break wide-eyed over Elon’s expression; it make him grin, even though Elon isn’t paying attention to his face anymore. “Go for it, it’s all yours.”

Micah can see Elon’s hand lift in his periphery. The approach is slow, the contact gentle, like he’s afraid of shattering something fragile instead of brushing his fingers through a mess of curls; Micah doesn’t immediately feel the contact, not when the weight of Elon’s touch settling into the strands is too ghosting-light to trigger any sensation until he’s actually stroking his fingers through the locks. The friction is careful, tentative with not-quite fright, but it runs warmth all down Micah’s spine, drags his exhale into the shape of a delighted laugh and ducks his head down to offer more of his hair for Elon’s fingers. Elon sighs, relief or satisfaction Micah isn’t sure which, and then there are slender fingers sliding through Micah’s hair, fingertips pressing contact against his scalp before drawing away to ease through the threat of tangles without dragging over into pain.

“You have nice hair,” Elon says, so softly and easily Micah doesn’t realize right away that it’s the first full sentence he’s offered since waking.

Micah glances up from the curtain in front of his face, waits until Elon is looking at him and not at his hair to pull the corner of his mouth into a lopsided grin. “Glad you think so,” he says. “You have nice feathers.”

Elon’s mouth twists, works itself around into a smile. “Thank you,” he says.

“And thanks for not biting my fingers off yesterday,” Micah continues as Elon’s touch glides against the back of his neck, trails against the skin left bare by the low collar of his undershirt. “Could you understand what I was saying?”

“Mm,” Elon hums consideration. “Not exactly.” His hand drags back up, ruffling through Micah’s hair as he goes; Micah hums wordless appreciation, ducks his head for more. “But I knew it was you.”

“And that’s enough to keep my fingers intact?” Micah asks, tipping his head up to grin at Elon through the mess the other is making of his hair.

Elon blinks at him, eyes wide and gold and sincere. “Of course,” he says. “I trust you.”

The warmth that swells in Micah’s chest is enough to eclipse even the comfortable friction of Elon’s fingers in his hair.


	9. Praise

They do better the second time.

All the trainees are calmer during the repeat practice. The first-time nerves have dissipated, and if no one other than Lia is calm enough to actually shut their eyes no one is actively fretting in place either. Everyone knows what to expect, too; the take-off is smoother, less of a frantic rush of partners lurching into too-hasty transformations over the shouts of their human companions and more graceful conversions to sweep into the air mid-shift. There’s still something of a rush; Micah can feel the tension against his spine, self-consciousness fretting at the seconds between the first Wing’s takeoff and Elon’s, but it feels better to go slow, to take the time for Elon to flutter himself into stability on Micah’s outstretched arm. His talons dig into Micah’s skin, threaten scratches that suggest long sleeves for their next practice, but Micah’s running too high on adrenaline to feel it right now; right now everything is crisp and clean and bright, until he imagines he can read information from the flutter of Elon’s wings through the air, from the cut of gold eyes focusing on him.

“Go for it,” he says, feels Elon cling tighter to his arm as Micah dips down before swinging the other’s weight up and out. Elon’s wings sweep wide, cut through the air so close Micah jerks back on reflex, but Elon’s launched already, his trajectory a smooth arc as planned even if Micah is stumbling backwards in an awkward flurry of limbs. By the time he’s certain of his footing again, the other Wings are airborne too, dark and pale feathers alike rising into the sky as their partners gaze up with the same blank appreciation Micah feels every time he sees Elon in the air.

“Keep your heads on the ground,” Warnock shouts from his position a little ways distant. He’s watching them and not the Wings, arms crossed over his chest in preemptive judgment of the things they are sure to do wrong. “Their job is the sky, yours is to keep focused on where  _you_  are. Do your part to maintain that balance.”

“Sir,” they all echo, a mismatched harmony of understanding, and when Micah looks around everyone else is doing the same, each wearing expressions of self-conscious awareness. Lia is the exception in this as in everything; she opened her eyes when Warnock spoke, moved her mouth when the rest of them did, but she’s staring straight ahead now, her expression as clearly unseeing as if she still had her eyes shut.

“Don’t think I don’t see you,” Warnock calls, and Lia’s head comes up along with everyone else’s, her focus giving way to allow for this conversation. “If you can’t fool me into thinking you’re paying attention you’re not doing a good enough job at it. At least learn how to act if you can’t be bothered to obey.”

“Sir,” Lia says, her chin coming up and cheeks darkening. Micah’s not sure it’s embarrassment as much as irritation in her expression, but if Warnock can see that he doesn’t comment this time. When Lia looks away so does everyone else, turning out to the dappled shadows of the trees around them like there’s anything to see except for familiar branches and green leaves.

It’s hard for Micah to keep his thoughts straight. They’re humming, tense in anticipation of the Wings’ return and strained around the need to do something he can’t even identify. Looking around them is easy enough, but with nothing to observe it’s hard to keep his focus on what he’s supposed to be doing, hard to keep his attention from wandering to the determination making a flat line of Lia’s mouth or the jumpy movements the youngest Ground keeps making every time he forgets what he’s supposed to be doing and then remembers in a rush. If Micah looks up he thinks of Elon, dark wings against a pale sky, thinks about the wild behind the other’s gold eyes so clear to see after his morning transformations and tries to guess at how dramatic the shift back will be this time, sketches plans for communication that are discarded as quickly as they form. Then there’s a shout, a voice raised in startled excitement, and the whole handful of them look up as one to where one of the Wings is leading the return. It’s a spill of movement, this time, their partners sweeping in neck-and-neck right up to the end, until Micah is reflexively lifting an arm for Elon to land on before the other stumbles onto human legs and catches himself against Micah’s half-raised arms.

“Elon,” Micah says before Elon’s had a chance to panic himself out of clear thought, while the other’s gold eyes are still hazy with visions of the sky instead of focused on Micah. “It’s Micah, Elon, look at me.” Elon blinks hard, twice in quick succession; then his gaze lands on Micah’s hair, follows the line of it down to the other boy’s eyes, and Micah can see him coming back into himself.

“Hey,” Micah says. Elon’s fingers are digging into his arms with bruising force, clinging to him like the world might tip sideways and drop him right off its surface. He can feel the ache but he doesn’t try to drag away, tries to swallow down the frantic impatience from his voice like Elon told him he should. “What’s the message?”

“Message?” Elon repeats. He looks lost, forehead creasing like he’s struggling to recall the meaning of the word. “I. Message?”

Micah can feel his shoulders tensing with haste, his balance tipping forward as if he can pick Elon’s knowledge out of his head directly just by proximity. It’s the opposite of what he should do, he knows -- he didn’t need his planning session with Elon to tell him to be conscious of his body language with the other -- but it’s happening anyway, his own stress presenting itself in his shoulders and bleeding into a curl of Elon’s spine like a wall going up. Micah shuts his eyes, takes a breath before he opens them again; it’s not as helpful as it could be, but it’s a small comfort, enough to soften his voice when he speaks again.

“Right.” Gentle, gentle, loosen his hold on Elon’s elbows, let the calm in his voice spread into his stance. “You have a message for me.”

“I have a message for you,” Elon repeats back, but it sounds like a statement instead of a question. “Three dozen in the.” He hesitates for a breath, eyes cutting sideways, but clarifies too fast for Micah to suggest: “West. I mean, southwest.” His eyes are clearing, shoulders straightening; it’s easier to relax when Micah can see the effects of his efforts in the face across from him, can feel the ache of Elon’s hold on his arms loosening into something far more careful and far less desperate. “Not enemies.”

“Allies?” Micah suggests.

Elon shakes his head, so fast and sharp Micah has no time to question his own choice of words. “Not sure.”

“Okay,” Micah says, squeezes tight at Elon’s arms for a moment, the pressure intended to offer comfort to match the flash of a smile he gives. “Stay here.”

It feels like it’s been minutes, like every deliberate inhale cost them dear. But when Micah draws his arms free of Elon’s hold Lia’s only just turning back from Warnock, everyone else still locked in intent conversation with their partner. Micah doesn’t even have to hurry to be second to duck his head in recognition to the captain. “Message to report, sir!”

Warnock makes no attempt to imitate Micah’s put-on formality. “Go ahead.”

“There is a group of three dozen approaching from the southwest. They do not appear to be enemies as far as we can tell, but neither are they confirmed allies.”

Warnock’s nod comes so fast Micah almost doesn’t realize it’s approval. “Got it all,” he says, looking out over Micah’s head at the rest of the group. “Good work. You two worked out a plan beforehand, didn’t you.”

Micah blinks, caught off-guard. “We talked about it after the first time, yeah.”

Warnock nods again, clean and satisfied. “You did well,” he says. “Go and tell your partner I said so.”

Micah can feel the smile spread over his face, the pleasure of success spreading warm against his spine. “Thank you,” he says, barely thinking to append “sir!” before he turns to obey.

He doesn’t mind being the messenger for news like this.


	10. Compare

“He really said that?” Elon asks for the third time.

Micah looks up from his plate of dinner, raises an eyebrow to match the grin he offers his partner. “I swear that’s what he said,” he says, lifting his hand in a gesture of sincerity. “Do you really think I’d lie to you?”

“What?” Elon says, shakes his head like he’s throwing off the idea. “No, I just--”

“I’m teasing,” Micah says, drops his hand and tips in to bump Elon’s hunched shoulder with his own. “Sorry. I promise, that’s what he said. ‘You did well,’” he repeats in a tragically bad imitation of Warnock’s rumbling voice. “‘Go tell your partner I said so.’ So I did.” He looks back down at his food, tears a piece of bread in half and sweeps it through what remains of his second serving of stew. “And I’ve been repeating myself all afternoon.”

“But why would he say that?” Elon asks, as seriously as if Micah might actually have the answer. “We did what we were supposed to do. Why is that deserving of praise?”

Micah looks up again. Elon’s watching him with the same intensity that has kept his dinner half-finished for the last thirty minutes; Micah’s not actually sure Elon remembers it’s there for how much he’s fretting over the apparently inexplicable praise they received.

“We did good,” Micah says, aiming for the simplest explanation he can find. “We were a lot better than the first time, right?”

Elon’s forehead creases in consideration, his mouth falling into a frown. “I didn’t notice that much of an improvement.”

Micah grins. He waits until Elon’s focus is back on him before he makes a show of looking around and leaning in close, waiting until Elon tips in to meet him before he speaks.

“Me neither,” he murmurs, soft, like it’s a secret. He has to cling to composure, is starting to grin seconds before Elon starts to smile, but then Elon huffs into laugh and the patience is worth it for the surge of victorious heat that rushes through Micah’s veins.

“I really don’t know,” he says as he straightens to handle the coordination necessary for the last few bites of his food. “I guess we’re syncing up better than we thought we were.”

“Maybe,” Elon says, still sounding uncertain about the conclusion.

Micah finishes the last of his bread, reaches out to bump the back of Elon’s wrist with his knuckles. “Eat,” he says in gentle command, smiles when Elon looks up with the startled attention he always brings to unexpected physical contact. “You’ll never get any stronger if you don’t eat. You want to beat me at sparring someday, right?”

Elon’s smile is sudden, bright and pleased, and when he ducks his head the nod he gives has no hesitation in it at all. “Yes,” he says, certain in the words, and turns his attention to his forgotten meal.

Micah watches him for a moment. Elon eats carefully, holding his fork with as much precision as if it’s an artist’s paintbrush, his fingers bracing against the plate and the utensil with a care that speaks to his full focus on what he’s doing. It’s oddly soothing to watch, his methodical movements making the daily habit of eating into something elegant with care, until Micah doesn’t think to offer any kind of interruption until Elon finishes the last of his bread and lifts his hand to his mouth to lick a spill of sauce off the inside of his wrist.

“Do you prefer eating as a human?” Micah asks, the question forming itself somewhere between Elon’s careful movements and the odd grace that comes of deliberation, as if he’s thinking through all his movements before he performs them. “Is it easier as a kite?”

Elon leans over to set his plate down; Micah reaches to retrieve his fork to make space for the other’s plate atop his own, clatters the weight of the utensil down against Elon’s scraped-clean dish as they both straighten. Elon twists against the log that forms the closest thing to a seat around the main clearing’s bonfire, crosses his legs in front of him as he turns in to face Micah directly. His eyes catch the bright from the fire, sparkle into a glow that makes his eyelashes look inky-dark when he blinks.

“I don’t have a preference,” he says, slow like he’s double-checking the words before he says them. “It’s easier as a kite, but it’s…” He frowns, reaching for the words. “A necessity. I enjoy the experience more as a human.”

“You’re always so methodical about it,” Micah says, smiling so Elon knows he means it affectionately. “It’s like a dance. I don’t think I’ve ever paid so much attention to eating.”

“Maybe you should,” Elon suggests, the corners of his eyes going tight on what Micah is learning to recognize as suppressed amusement. “You might enjoy it more.”

“Maybe I will,” Micah allows. He brings one leg up in front of him, angles it out so he can lean in closer, can catch the sound of their voices in the space between their shoulders. “So you like eating as a human, then.”

“Yes,” Elon says, steady with certainty.

“What about as a kite?” Micah asks. “Other than sleeping. What’s your favorite thing about transforming?”

Elon looks at Micah for a moment, a haze in his eyes like he’s considering the question. Then he looks up, head tilting back as he turns to the sky; the movement makes a pale-smooth curve of his throat, tumbles his hair back from his forehead and into even greater disarray than usual.

“The sky,” he says finally, that one word turning itself into a paragraph, an essay, a thousand words of meaning fit into the tone of his voice and the unfocused bright of his eyes. Something in Micah’s chest turns itself over, aches with nostalgia for an experience he’s never known, a feeling he can nearly recall just from the soft at Elon’s mouth and the glow at his eyes.

“Oh,” Micah says, more lost for words in this moment than he has yet been with his not-quite-human partner. “Is it that amazing?”

Elon looks down again, eyes landing on Micah’s face instead of focused on the darkening sky overhead. His gaze is still a little strange, like he’s borrowed the height of the clouds for his eyes, like he’s forgotten how to smile for the distraction of phantom wings he doesn’t have right now.

“Yes,” he says.

“Wow,” Micah says, because it’s the best answer he has, and the only word that he can swing as low and stunned as he wants it to. There’s a heartbeat of silence, two, the moment stretching long and unblinking; and then Micah’s mouth twitches, amusement going sharp-edged and bright on the intensity of Elon’s gaze.

“You won’t believe this,” he says, leaning back against the log and bracing himself into a slouch of comfort. “Did you know that I’m afraid of heights?”

Elon blinks, reels back in the first impact of the shock. “What?”

“It’s true,” Micah says, the admission coming easy around the grin spreading over his face in response to the wide-eyed surprise all over Elon’s. “I can barely stand stepladders. I climbed a tree once and someone had to come up and carry me down, I was shaking so badly.”

Elon is still staring. Micah can all but see the effort it’s costing him to comprehend this idea, to wrap his head around the very concept itself. “How old were you?”

“Six,” Micah says. When he tilts his head his smile spreads wider, the expression warming his blood as it forms. “I bet you were flying by then.”

“Of course I was,” Elon says, the words coming fast with how apparently obvious the answer is. “I’m an Egg, I could fly before I could walk.”

“You would have thought I was an idiot,” Micah observes. “If you were even born yet. How old  _are_  you?”

“Twenty-one.” Elon says. “I hatched October 7.”

Micah hesitates, caught off-balance by how simple Elon makes that phrasing sound. “Uh. Do you still call it a birthday, or…?”  
Elon’s smile is sudden, startling and bright in the fading light. “Birthday is fine.”

“Okay,” Micah says, grins in a rush of relief. “Guess I don’t get much of an advantage of age, then. January 16. You’ll catch me once October’s here.”

“I don’t mind you being older,” Elon says, his smile lingering to turn the words into gentle teasing in spite of the level tone. “At least I’m not afraid of heights.”

“Better me than you,” Micah admits. “Can you imagine if  _I_  was the one supposed to be flying?”

Elon’s laugh says very clearly that he can’t. The sound is bright, catches contagious into the air, and Micah’s grin breaks into laughter without any effort at all, any attempt at restraint rendered useless in the span of a breath.

It’s not like he would have tried to fight it anyway.


	11. Translation

“You have no idea how good that feels,” Micah says, head tipped forward so he would be staring at his knees if he were paying any attention to something as presently unnecessary as his vision.

Elon’s fingers go still for a moment; there’s a pause while he turns the words over in his head. Then there’s a huff of air, an exhale turned taut against the curve of a smile, and he resumes the slow stroke of his touch against the waves of Micah’s hair.

“You don’t mind?” he asks, and Micah has to laugh at the absurdity of the question, at the uncertainty in Elon’s voice when Micah can feel his shoulders sagging into the comfort of the contact, can feel his spine prickling pleasure out into rising warmth in his veins.

“Not even a little.” Micah lets himself slump farther forward, braces his weight against his arms before he shuts his eyes and gives up on even the attempt at vision. With his eyes shut he can focus on the pressure of Elon’s hand, can feel the friction of each fingertip dragging over his scalp individually. “You can do this all night if you wanted. I’d trade sleep for this, no question.”

“You’d regret it in the morning,” Elon observes, but he’s reaching out with his other hand, catching his fingers into the other side of Micah’s hair to push it back and up off his neck. Micah tilts his head sideways, lets Elon’s fingers draw the locks into a curtain that catches at his shoulder. Elon’s touch leaves a path of painless fire across his scalp, against the curve of his ear, down through the tension forming in his neck from the effort of supporting his head at this steep angle. “Sleep is important.”

“I’d try it once,” Micah admits. “I’m allowed to make a mistake one time.” That gets him a laugh, as it was intended to; Elon leans in closer, shifting until his knees are more on Micah’s side of the tent than his own, and Micah lets himself tip sideways until his shoulder is bumping against Elon’s chest. Elon’s fingers are gentle, careful with Micah’s hair as Micah rarely is himself; the consideration is as soothing as the friction itself, the sense of being handled like something fragile comforting like a lullaby. With his eyes shut Micah can let his thoughts wander, can let his weight sag harder against Elon’s support as time stretches long and warm in the hazy almost-sleep of the comfort filling the tent with easy silence.

Finally Elon’s fingers still. Micah can read that cue without looking, is straightening to take his weight back before Elon starts to lean away.

“You tired?” he asks, retreating to the other edge of his blankets and turning to see the haze of sleepiness creeping over Elon’s gaze, the dip of his head like the weight is too much for him to bear.

“Mm,” Elon hums, catches himself into a yawn that crinkles his eyes shut and turns his lashes into a single smoky line for a moment. “Yes.”

“You should sleep.” Micah grins, gentle self-deprecation creeping under the expression. “ _I_  should sleep.”

“Yes,” Elon agrees, rolling his shoulders back and stretching his arms over his head. Micah can see the satisfaction of the movement ease over the other’s features, can watch the resultant relaxation dip heavy in his shoulders. “We should.”

“I’ve got the lamp,” Micah declares, as he always does, runs a hand through the soft haze Elon’s fingers have made of his hair to push it back into more or less order. “You’re good to go whenever you want.”

“Goodnight, Micah,” Elon says, precise like he’s giving an order. Micah isn’t even looking when there’s the usual rush of air, the flutter of wings fitting into the enclosed space; he’s rapidly become accustomed to this, the dip in the air pressure and the sound of feathers, Elon rustling himself into comfort before Micah reaches over to blow out the clean burn of the lamp.

Except this time Elon doesn’t settle into the curve of the blankets or turn to fit his head against the line of his wing. He moves instead, wings sweeping through the air for one smooth stroke of action that gusts through the tent and nearly gutters the light out before talons catch at Micah’s shoulder, the fragile weight of Elon’s kite form settling into place while Micah’s still tensing in the first stifled yelp of surprise.

“Woah!” he chokes, too startled to think to repress his reaction, but Elon doesn’t take fright as he would have before, doesn’t even flutter to steady himself. He just shifts a foot, braces himself against Micah’s shirt, and while Micah is still forming the question “Elon?” to cover all his uncertainties at once Elon is leaning in to catch a lock of hair in his beak. The tug is gentle, lighter and less smooth than the drag of fingers, almost ticklish as Elon moves, but Micah doesn’t jerk away; he goes still instead, looks sideways as far as he can without turning his head as Elon tucks his hair back into place behind his ear.

“Are you preening me?” he asks finally, fighting back the smile that is threatening at the corner of his mouth. When he turns his head -- very slowly, so as not to disturb Elon or startle either of them -- Elon is watching him, gold eyes meeting his with far more awareness than an ordinary kite would have. Micah hesitates for a moment, unsure if he should repeat himself; then Elon ruffles his feathers, fluffs himself as downy soft as Micah has ever seen before making a faint chirping noise and resettling into sleek elegance again.

Micah grins, huffs himself into a laugh. “Okay,” he says, and reaches up slow, so Elon can move away if he wants to. “I’ll take that as a yes.” His knuckles bump against feathers, drag as gently as he can manage against the soft dark against Elon’s chest, and Elon blinks at him, gold giving way to what is clearly understandable as contentment and sleepiness in equal parts.

“Alright,” Micah says, lifting his hand for one more careful slide across dark-patterned feathers. “Go to sleep before you pass out on my shoulder and fall off.”

The look Elon gives him says that whatever else may have been lost in translation, Micah’s teasing has not gone unnoticed. Micah has to tip his head sideways to miss the sweep of wings, and he’s pretty sure that Elon’s landing is far more deliberately graceful than it usually is. It makes him laugh anyway, grinning through the warmth filling his chest and spreading out into his veins, until when he says “‘Night, Elon,” he’s certain the other will understand all the important parts of the phrase even if the specifics of the language go hazy.


	12. Teasing

“It’s the same pattern all the way down,” Micah says, the movement of his fingers on the rope falling into a rhythm he can talk over without thinking. “It’s easy once you get the hang of it.”

“Slow down,” Elon says without looking up from the motion of Micah’s hands. “I can’t see what you’re doing.”

“Sorry.” Micah stops, fingers stilled under the contact of Elon’s hand reaching out for him, glances sideways and waits until the strain of concentration has eased from Elon’s forehead. “It’s in three pieces, see?” He spreads the ends of the braid apart to make them easier for Elon to see. “And then you fold one of the side pieces over the middle.” He demonstrates, pausing to spread the pieces wide again. “That becomes the new center piece. Then you do the same with the other side.” He starts moving again, deliberately slowly this time, and Elon stays quiet, observing the pattern of his hands with studied attention. “See what I’m doing?”

“Yes,” Elon says, slow like he really means the word. “Can I try?”

“All yours,” Micah says, handing over the frayed-loose rope. The braid is an inch or two long, the plaits neat and cinched tight under the tug of his fingers; Elon takes it with as much care as if it’s some valuable work of art, nearly drops the whole thing with how carefully he’s holding it.

“It’s just a rope,” Micah says, watching the concentration in Elon’s eyes rather than the shift of his careful fingers. “Don’t worry about it, it’s not like there’s anything to mess up.”

Elon nods in understanding of the words, but he doesn’t look up; he’s focused entirely on what he’s doing, his mouth losing even the inflection of a maybe-smile in favor of flatline attention. It’s distracting in and of itself, watching someone focus so intently on something; Micah’s gaze catches at Elon’s face, lingers there instead of watching the motion of the other’s hands as he had intended. Elon’s lashes are very dark when he blinks, the weight of them skimming so close against his cheeks Micah wonders if he can feel the motion of them against the skin. The sunlight catches off Elon’s cheekbones, draws pale skin into a faint glow and illuminates a smattering of  color Micah hasn’t seen before.

“You’re freckling,” Micah says, reaching out without thinking to touch the faint pattern across Elon’s cheek. The marks are pale, so light he almost can’t see them even in direct sunlight and as close as he and Elon are to each other. His thumb catches warm skin, presses friction against it, and Elon jumps, his attention jolting away from the braid in his fingers as he twists to look at Micah with the sudden start of a wild animal.

“Oh,” Micah says, goes still with his fingers an inch off Elon’s skin. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Elon’s eyes are very wide, his lips parted on his speeding breath; then he blinks, and shakes his head, and the tension in his shoulders eases far faster than Micah expected it to. “It’s okay,” he says, straightening from his lean away. “I didn’t see you move.”

“I’ll warn you next time,” Micah promises, and then, because Elon’s still looking at him and not flinching away: “I was just saying you have freckles.” He touches a fingertip to Elon’s skin again, skims the high curve of cheekbone as if Elon can see himself through the friction of Micah’s fingers. “From the sun.”

“Oh.” Elon lets one of his hands go on the rope, reaches up to touch the other side of his face in what Micah is fairly sure is an unconscious echo of the contact. “Really?” He draws his hand away as Micah does, looks down at his fingers like he’s half-expecting them to have absorbed the faint color. “I’ve never had them before.”

“It’s the sun,” Micah offers, an obvious statement made gentle by the easy flow of the conversation.

“Mm.” Elon is still looking at his hand, flexing his fingers idly and blinking at the motion. “I’ve been spending more time in this form than I usually do.”

“Yeah?” Micah grins, reaches for the comfort of teasing. “If you’re not careful you’ll have a burn next. Maybe you should start spending more time as a kite.”

Elon shakes his head, finally looks up as he closes his fingers into a gentle fist and presses his hold in on itself like he’s clinging to something Micah can’t see. “No,” he says, certain on the one word like it’s an entire speech. “I can’t talk to you as a kite.”

Something in Micah’s chest twists, a spark he didn’t know was there expanding to press against the inside of his ribcage. He can feel his eyes going softer, his expression easing into something he can’t predict, and he ducks his head, breaks away from the bright of Elon’s eyes in the first involuntary rush of mostly-embarrassment.

“I’m going to have to up my game,” he says, staring at Elon’s fingers stalled-still on the end of the rope while he lets the flush of sudden heat fade and calm. “If it’s just for my conversational skills that you’re giving up on wings and feathers I have to be worthy of it.”

“That’s not the only reason,” Elon says with such slow consideration that Micah’s stomach drops again, his body tensing into anticipation of something he hasn’t quite framed.

“Oh?” he asks, fighting for calm, fighting for steadiness.

“Yeah,” Elon says. “Braiding is really difficult to do with wings.”

Micah’s laugh comes too loud, startled into a volume that makes Elon jump in the first spill of it. “You’re  _teasing_  me,” he says, as warmly pleased as he ever is by this occurrence. “You should be more considerate of my fragile emotions.”

“You don’t seem that fragile to me,” Elon says, but he’s grinning too, the shape of his smile something Micah can recognize from the smirk tugging at his own lips. “You definitely weigh more than anyone needs to.”

“Not all of us have hollow bones,” Micah says, then attempts a gentle insult: “Birdboy.”

He’s ready for Elon’s smile to fade, for his shoulders to hunch into the immediate withdrawal of offense like they did on their first day together. But Elon’s grin twists itself wider, his eyes go brighter, and when he speaks it’s to say “ _Human_ ” in a passable attempt at disgust.

It takes them both a while to stop giggling.


	13. Tested

The scouting team is more informal than Micah had expected them to be.

It’s strange to be here at all, even if Warnock assured him that “You’re just here for a test run to see what it’s like, no one really expects you to  _do_  anything.” The trees feel full of sound and motion as they never have before, the shape of the hills around them made unfamiliar by the miles between the camp and here. And Elon’s on Micah’s shoulder instead of at his side, his talons digging in hard against the too-thin fabric of the other’s shirt and promising a pattern of scratches to be inspected later that night. He transformed as soon as they met up with the group, barely waiting for Trea’s abrupt flutter into owl-silent feathers to follow suit, and Micah isn’t surprised; even his own more fluid social skills have given out in his mingled awe and confusion to find the rest of the group so casually comfortable with each other.

“Don’t leave the newbie out,” one of the others says now, a Wing who looks like she’s nearly five years younger than Micah himself. Her hair is cut short, close enough to her scalp that Micah can see the dark of her skin under the short strands. Her eyes, when she looks back at him, are startlingly bright against the contrast. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Micah,” Micah says, not protesting the appellation; it’s true in terms of experience if not in age.

The girl’s eyes flick to Elon’s, her head ducking into a quick nod. “And yours?”

Elon makes a faint noise, a startled chirp barely loud enough for Micah to hear, but Micah stalls for a beat too long before he realizes he’ll need to answer on Elon’s behalf and pulls himself together enough to say “He’s Elon,” and unnecessarily “My partner” before he can think the better of the obvious clarification.

The girl looks at him again, grins in a sharp flash of white teeth but doesn’t comment, for which Micah is grateful. Easy enough to smile self-deprecation in response, to offer the sheepish duck of his head that might be an apology if he even knew which part to be embarrassed about.

“That’s Jesse,” she offers, waving forward towards a woman with a sheaf of orange hair tangling over her shoulders and halfway down her back. The name gets a half-turn, the glance of a quick once-over, but if the Wing is willing to spare conversation her partner clearly is not. “I’m Alena.” She looks them over again, a quick pass over Micah and a longer for Elon; Micah can feel Elon tense at his shoulder, his body going stiff and so awkward he nearly falls when Micah’s footing slides off-balance for a step. Alena grins again, the expression sharp in her eyes, and skips a step forward as she starts to turn away.

“Just don’t get in the way,” she says, “and you’ll be fine” and she’s springing forward, shifting forms mid-stride to catch herself on black wings that gleam iridescent in the sunlight. There’s a handful of other shifts, Wings changing form on some unseen signal, and Elon braces himself on Micah’s shoulder as he lowers his center of mass in anticipation of a takeoff.

“Good luck,” Micah says, too fast and not loud enough, and Elon is pushing off, sweeping himself up and into the air to catch the trailing end of the rest of the Wings. Micah misses a step, watching Elon lift himself against air to rise with his always-startling grace; then he’s gone, disappeared over the treetops, and when Micah looks back down the rest of the Corps has nearly dropped him. One of them is trailing, looking back after him; Micah jogs forward, catches up in a matter of steps, and the other Ground falls into stride with him.

“Micah, right?” The Ground -- Liam, Micah remembers from the initial introductions, the assigned leader for this mission -- isn’t holding eye contact. He’s scanning the trees instead, his eyes sharp on their surroundings and his mouth flat in a line that speaks more to his attention on what he’s doing than to any kind of judgment or dislike. Micah jerks his head in a nod, the instinctive response made more immediate by the motion, and follows it up with a quick “Yes sir,” for good measure.

Liam waves a hand, brushes the words aside without comment. “Look at the ground, not at the sky,” he says, the words so close to Warnock’s that Micah can hear the older man’s tone catching on the gaps in the sentence. “Trust your partner to do his job.”

“I do,” Micah says, more stung by this implication of distrust than by any critique of his own flustered behavior. “I do trust him.”

“Good,” Liam says, still without bothering to meet Micah’s eyes. “If you have any additional information to offer when the Wings return, speak up. Just because you’re a new trainee doesn’t mean you have nothing to offer.”

Micah nods understanding, opens his mouth to speak, but Liam’s already turning away and moving towards the other edge of the group where Lia is staring at the ground in obvious avoidance of any form of communication. Liam gets a flat stare for the interruption, and that’s all Micah has time to notice; there’s a voice raised from the front of the group, “Incoming!” in a clear, carrying tone, and Micah’s attention is completely captured by the Wings that start to dip in towards the support of their partners. There’s an order to it, the arrivals more staggered than the mass rush Micah’s seen in practice runs with the other trainees; the fastest Wings dive in first, Elon coming hard on the heels of the second and transforming back almost before the first has started to shift.

“Careful,” Micah blurts as Elon falls the last foot to the ground and stumbles on unsteady feet. He’s breathless, gasping for air so hard Micah can see the effort working in his shoulders; when Micah grabs at his arms, his hold is as much to keep Elon on his feet as to steady his shaky post-transformation balance. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Mi--” Elon starts, breaks off into a head shake and unfocused stare. “Micah.”

“Yeah,” Micah says, and tightens his hold on Elon’s arms until he can feel the danger of a bruise forming under his fingertips. There are voices all around them, a babble of noise from Wings and Grounds alike, low murmurs and shouts mingling into a cacophony, but Micah ignores it, leans in close so Elon’s wandering attention will focus back in on him. “That’s me.”

“People,” Elon says, hesitates. “A camp.”

“Not ours?” Micah prompts, and Elon shakes his head in agreement.

“Not us,” and then, a little faster, a little smoother: “A lot of them.”

“As many as we have here?” Micah asks, and Elon nods so fast he drastically revises his estimate. “As many as we have at the camp?” That’s a headshake, and Elon’s eyes are coming back into focus, the clinging haze of the sky fading with every breath he takes. Micah tries again: “Forty?” and Elon nods, his expression going soft with gratitude.

“Alright!” Liam calls, and Micah’s attention is dragged up, away from Elon’s steadying breaths and clearing gaze. “We have about fifty in a camp six miles distant, no visible insignia on their uniforms, no movement other than typical daily motions of a camp, no immediate danger, no visible scouts at the perimeter.” He pauses to let this announcement sink in. “Anyone have any other details?”

There’s far more than Micah was expecting. From how wide Elon’s eyes have gone, more than half of it is news to him as well, or knowledge he lost mid-transformation. Micah glances at Lia, standing at the edge of the group with Trea half-hidden behind her; she looks less startled but isn’t speaking up to volunteer any additional information, and it might not be important but:

“Forty,” Micah calls, his voice so loud and carrying he surprises himself. He sounds calm, sounds like he knows what he’s talking about even as his heart picks up speed at the eyes that turn to him and to Elon, the other still holding to his arms like he needs the support. “Only forty, not fifty.”

“Forty,” Liam repeats, immediate acceptance without questioning, and the group turns back to him without further comment. Lia’s eyes linger on Elon a moment longer than anyone else’s, skip from him to Micah with something between surprise and respect in her gaze, but then she looks away too, back to where Liam is repeating the revised information and opening it up for further corrections from the group, and Micah can look back to the clear gold of Elon’s gaze fixed on him.

His smile is easy, forms before he’s even thought to offer it. “Good job,” he says as he shifts his hold out of the desperate grab it was originally and into something gentler as the distraction at Elon’s mouth goes soft and curving into a smile of his own. “You okay?”

Elon takes a deep breath, so long and deliberate that Micah can hear it shuddering in his chest when he exhales. “Yes,” he says, and tilts his head to the side, and smiles, a little shaky and a little giddy at once.

Micah grins back.


	14. Coordinate

“Come  _on_ ,” Talim pleads over dinner that night, leaning in close like Micah’s holding onto some top-secret information. “You’ve got to give us advice so we don’t massively screw up.”

Micah laughs into his cup, reaches out to set it down without moving his head away from the gentle tug of Elon’s fingers through his hair. “I don’t think you  _can_  massively screw up,” he says, tilting his head to the side so Elon can fumble with the braid he’s trying to set above Micah’s ear. “They told us to just stay out of the way if we didn’t know what to do.”

“Bet Talim can screw that up anyway,” his partner offers, flashing a grin just this side of cocky instead of mean.

“Shut your mouth,” Talim offers with remarkable equanimity, glancing over to throw a punch that looks far more vicious through the swing than it does on impact. His partner just leans away, the tip of his body softening the blow into something barely a push, and Trea speaks up into the moment of distraction.

“It was different than the practice runs,” she says, her voice lower than Micah expected and rich with resonance. She’s not looking at the rest of them anymore than she’s looking at Lia; her eyes are on the ground, head tipped down in a way that speaks more to disinterest than to self-consciousness. “They operated as a group.”

“The others were collecting specific information,” Lia picks up, her words catching the drop of Trea’s so smoothly Micah wouldn’t know it was a second person but for the change in voice. “One reported uniforms, one checked the perimeter, one took a count, and then they reported back all the pieces to the group leader.”

“Huh,” Talim says, considering. “Why haven’t we been doing that in training, if that’s how they do it in the field?”

“We have different strengths,” Lia says, as if she knows, as if she’s privy to information the rest of them don’t have. “The new recruits don’t make a good team by ourselves. We have to be assigned to other groups where we’ll fill a need.”

There’s a pause while they all take this in. Then Talim again, heaving a sigh only half put-on: “Well that’s it for us then,” as he kicks his feet out in front of him, tips himself backwards to sprawl against the rock a foot behind him. “Clearly we’ll be assigned to the group in need of a few good-looking men.”

“Wing,” his partner corrects, barely sparing him a glance devastatingly weighted with judgment at odds with his youthful appearance. “You might be a man but I am  _definitely_  not just a human.”

“Rude,” Talim informs him without any heat in his voice.

“I don’t think you have much of a role there anyway,” Lia offers, voice so calmly considering it’s hard to hear the insult it’s laden with for a moment. “After Elon’s done with him Micah’s going to be the dolled-up one.”

“Huh?” Micah says, reacting to the unexpected sound of his name more than to the actual meaning of the words. He wasn’t paying attention exactly, had been lulled into inattention by the easy back-and-forth banter of Talim and his partner and by the gentle tug of Elon’s fingers through his hair. “What about me?”

“Is that some kind of bonding technique?” Trea asks, eying Elon skeptically. Her mouth is turned down into a frown, uncertainty clear in her eyes, but there’s something of curiosity there too.

“It’s a braid,” Elon says. Micah turns his head as far as he can against the pressure of Elon’s fingers so he can angle a glance up at him; Elon’s looking at Trea for the moment, but his shoulders are tipped in, fingers only momentarily stalled in the strands, all his body oriented in and around Micah. “Micah has nice hair.”

“Like preening,” Trea says with sudden confidence.

“No,” Elon says at the exact moment Micah says, “Yeah,” remembering the catch of Elon’s beak sliding through his hair with the feel of a lullaby. They pause, Elon looking down at Micah looking up; then “Not completely,” Micah amends, and “I guess,” Elon capitulates, and Talim starts to laugh.

“You have the synchronization part down,” he says. “Gotta work on that coordination, though.”

“It takes more concentration than preening,” Elon clarifies, flushing very slightly pink over what Micah can see of his face. Micah grins, tips his head forward in submission to Elon’s touch, and lets Elon go on explaining. “But the goal is the same, I think.”

“No complaints this time, Micah?” Talim asks, still grinning amusement at their contradictory tangle of answers.

Micah shrugs, tilts his weight back enough that he can bump his shoulder against Elon’s knee in unstated reassurance. “Everything I know about the subject I learned from him,” he points out. “If he says it’s different, then it’s different.”

“See,” Talim’s partner says, in the tone of one who has just scored a game-winning point in a long-running tournament. “Respect is  _important_.”

“I respect you!” Talim protests. There’s a beat of silence, then: “Dork,” in what is clearly intended to sound like an undertone and just as clearly nowhere near it.

Micah grins at the by-play without lifting his head. Elon hums amusement, laughter not-quite loud enough to carry, but Micah hears it, feels it in the momentary hesitation of Elon’s fingers tugging against his hair.

When he glances sideways, he can just make out the careful curve of Elon’s smile on his lips.


	15. Victory

Micah nearly falls the third time Elon lunges towards him. He stumbles backwards instead, fumbling for his footing across ground that suddenly seems far less even now than it did before. He’s sure he won’t make it this time, that his heel will skid in the dirt or his toe will catch that upturned rock that nearly did him in during his and Elon’s last sparring match; it’s too much to hope for, that he can catch his footing twice in as many minutes. But his foot lands steady, his balance abruptly rights itself, and he steps backwards, regaining his balance and his focus at the expense of over-adrenalined breathing.

“Not yet,” he says, because he has to consider this victory in small or he’ll be brought down by the inevitable loss coming for him in Elon’s tight-focused motions and unreasonably light steps. Micah tosses his head as if to throw his hair back from his face, a habit too old to have given way yet to the weight of the braids Elon has taken to keeping in his hair. Micah can feel each breath fill his lungs and gust desperately loud against his lips, but he’s grinning, his whole body humming with the frantic energy that comes of true competition and a worthy opponent. “You’re gonna have to try harder than that, birdboy.”

“You have the home advantage on the ground,” Elon points out, calm and apparently unruffled by his near-miss of victory. His arms are relaxed at his sides, his footsteps so airy-light they barely kick up dust; his eyes are bright, attention flickering around Micah’s body like he’s taking measurements, making judgments in the span between one blink and the next. “Unfair, don’t you think?”

“The way you’re moving is unfair,” Micah counters, and Elon steps in so suddenly Micah has to take a startled skip sideways to miss tripping over the other’s foot. Elon’s gotten better over the last few weeks, learning with the rapidity of a complete novice until he was suddenly not one anymore, until he’s taking Micah down as often as Micah gains the upper hand and getting better and better at keeping him down in spite of the fragility of his build. And he’s  _fast_ , so fast Micah has trouble watching his movements, has to trust to intuition to snatch his arm up and out of the way of Elon’s grab for his wrist. Fingers close, threaten a hold, but Micah slides his hand free before Elon can steady himself and then they’re at odds again, the few feet between them nothing like enough for security on either’s part.

“That was close,” Micah allows, grinning praise even though Elon’s not looking at his face, is paying as much attention to the casual angle of his wrists as he is to his expression. “Maybe you’ll even win someday” and he’s moving, as snap-fast as he can manage and in the middle of the sentence for what advantage of surprise that will grant him. His fingers catch at Elon’s sleeve, curl and tighten into a fist, and for a moment he’s grinning in victory, can taste his win clear and sharp on his tongue. He steps in, dragging hard against Elon’s wrist, but there’s none of the resistance he was expecting, just sudden fluid submission that knocks his balance away and leaves him stumbling forward in a startled fall towards the ground. Elon is moving, somehow, though Micah can’t figure out how; by the time Micah’s free hand slams against the ground Elon’s only half-under him and moving fast, twisting sideways and away and pulling Micah with him by his sustained hold on the other’s wrist. Micah rolls into the pull, surrender too instinctive for him to even consider resisting, and by the time he realizes what’s happening and frees his grip to regain the use of his hand it’s too late to do anything but give Elon another way to hold him down. There’s a weight over his hips, knees fitting to press hard against his legs and pin him in place, and then Elon’s fingers close on his wrists and it’s like shackles made of feathers, gentle enough that Micah’s efforts to break free don’t raise a bruise but somehow impossibly unbreakable. Micah’s boot catches at the ground, his back arching in an attempt to knock Elon free, but Elon just tips into it, his weight shifting as easily as if he’s riding an air current in the wind, and when Micah drops back to the ground Elon’s still leaning in over him, his hold as unshaken as if he never intends to let go.

“Damn,” Micah says, makes one last attempt to twist his hands free. Elon just leans into it, bracing himself against Micah’s hips so he can tilt in closer and pin the other’s hands beneath the weight of his own, and Micah lets himself go still in capitulation. “You’ve gotten better.”

Elon blinks, eyes shifting focus from Micah’s shoulders to his face, some self-awareness coming back into his expression as his situational perception fades off into calm. His hair is catching against the sheen of sweat at his forehead, his lips parted on the pace of his breathing; Micah can see a smile threaten the corner of his lips, a flicker of tension that evaporates as fast as it is seen.

“Do I win?” he asks, formally, as if this is a duel and not an unsupervised practice match like the ones they’ve been having near-daily since they were assigned to each other.

Micah can feel his chest working hard on each breath, the adrenaline of combat fading into submission under the unshakeable press of Elon’s body against his; when Elon shifts his hold Micah can feel the other’s fingers press into individual clarity against his wrists. He can see the pattern of freckles against Elon’s cheeks, scattered over the bridge of his nose and out under the shadow of his eyelashes, the uncanny, unreachable beauty of his high cheekbones and narrow jaw made young and almost-human with this one addition.

“Yeah,” Micah admits, chest going tight on breathlessness all over again as if he only just hit the ground a heartbeat ago. “You win, Elon.”

Elon blinks. Micah watches the shift of his eyelashes, the flicker of a gold stare dimming for a moment as Elon’s gaze shifts down and away from his eyes. The angle of Micah’s arms pinned up over his head feels suddenly vulnerable, the press of Elon’s fingers more deliberate; for a moment Micah would swear Elon is getting heavier, the minimal weight of his body gaining force by attention if not by fact.

“I do,” Elon says, and then he’s pulling away, fingers unwinding from the bracelet of a hold he’s made at Micah’s wrists as he rocks back over his heels. He presses in against Micah’s hips, balanced on the other boy’s lap for one overloaded instant; then he’s on his feet, standing up and away with that burst of fluid grace that Micah has come to expect from him.

It takes Micah another moment to collect himself, a deep breath before he can swing himself upright and scramble to his feet in a hasty tangle of arms and legs. Elon is watching him, eyes wide and shoulders tilted in, and Micah can’t decide if the angle of the other’s body is withdrawal or invitation, isn’t sure Elon himself could answer even if he asked.

He offers a smile instead, as easy as he can make it, as sincere as he can manage. “Good job,” he says, and if the arm he drops around Elon’s shoulders isn’t quite casual, it’s enough to ease some of the undefined stress arcing along Elon’s spine. “Next time I won’t need to go easy on you.”

Elon looks at him sideways, mouth tugging at a smile even as his eyebrows draw into a crease at his forehead. “ _Were_  you going easy on me?” he asks, the absolute flatness of his tone answering the rhetorical question before it leaves his lips. “I’ll have to be sure to beat you next time too, then.”

Micah’s laugh comes easy, spilling past his lips on the hum of adrenaline still crackling electric in his veins. It feels a little manic, edged with a self-conscious he can’t shake, like all his skin has gone hyper-sensitive at once, but Elon is still almost-smiling at him, and that’s enough to ease the worst of the strain off the sound.

By the time they’re back to the main camp, Micah’s breathing is almost back to normal.


	16. Attention

“I’m not sure this is going to work,” Micah admits as he tugs the curls of Elon’s hair into his best attempt at a braid flat against the other boy’s scalp. “I’m pretty sure this is going to go to pieces the minute you move or breathe or, you know, exist.”

“I don’t mind,” Elon says, the words dropping into something warm and soft with the comfort Micah can feel spreading tangibly into the space of the tent. “It feels nice anyway.”

“At least there’s that.” Micah catches another curl, tries to twist it in and around to hold down the trailing end of the last one; he’s got a few inches of the pattern holding together after a handful of false starts, but it’s fragile, he keeps knocking strands free just in the process of continuing his effort. Elon, to his credit, has been remarkably still since Micah told him to not move, even the motion of his inhales barely shifting his shoulders; Micah thought for a while he might even be asleep, were it not for the absolute steadiness along Elon’s spine instead of the drowsy capitulation sleep would bring with it.

“It’s only fair,” Micah goes on, filling the quiet of the space as he has learned to do in the absence of Elon’s voice. Elon hums in response, a faint wordless note of acknowledgment, and Micah keeps talking, a murmur or sound more to backdrop the movement of his fingers than with any real meaning behind it. “After all the effort you’ve put into braiding  _my_  hair, I really owe you to at least make the attempt.”

“I like your hair,” Elon says, soft and slow and without opening his eyes. His eyelashes are dark in profile, a smudge of shadow like the night outside has landed at his cheekbones. “It feels nice. It’s not an effort.”

“I like yours too.” Micah’s fingers slip, lose traction on the feathery strands, and the braid he was attempting slides out of his grasp, the ends unravelling themselves before he can even make an effort to recapture them. “It’s not going to hold this braid, though.”

“No?” Elon blinks his eyes open, lifts a hand to touch the plait; it comes undone under his touch, the pattern barely withstanding a moment’s contact before collapsing into the dark waves that Elon’s hair apparently prefers.

“Nah.” Micah reaches out, ruffles a hand through the curls to tangle them out of what remains of the braid and into their usual disarray, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s too fine, I don’t think anyone can get it to do anything it doesn’t want to do.”

Elon looks at him, mouth twisting in the way it does when he’s trying to restrain a smile. “It remembers the sky,” he says with deadpan sincerity. “It doesn’t want to be tied down to the ground.”

“Hmm,” Micah says, like he’s considering the idea. He drags his hand through Elon’s hair again, grins at the way the movement makes Elon duck his head and smile into almost-a-laugh. “Nah, I don’t think so. Your feathers are perfectly smooth and they’re what does all the flying.” Curls catch at his fingertips, slow his hand to smooth carefully over the curve of Elon’s ear, along the back of his neck. “Your hair just  _wants_  to be a mess all the time.”

Elon smiles instead of speaking. His eyes go brighter with the expression, the gold flashing into illumination for a heartbeat’s time; Micah’s attention is caught, held, even the movement of his fingers going to stillness just shy of Elon’s collar. Elon blinks, eyelashes drifting heavy over his eyes, and then his focus slides down, alights on Micah’s smile and lingers like he’s reading something off the curve of it.

“Your mouth wants to be smiling all the time,” he says, light enough that it sounds like an appropriate segue for a moment, calmly enough that Micah’s still holding to the edge of comfortable happiness when Elon lifts a hand to press a thumb to the corner of his lips. There’s a rush of heat, fire spilling into Micah’s veins from the casual friction, and he can feel his smile evaporate and collapse into an accidental softness at his mouth, surrendering to Elon’s ghosting touch without even a breath of command to go with it.

“Even when you’re not smiling,” Elon goes on, and he’s still staring at Micah’s mouth, his thumb is sliding sideways to press weight against Micah’s lower lip. Micah can see the shift of Elon’s eyelashes when he blinks, can see the consideration heavy in the movement, and he’s not sure he’s breathing, can feel his heart stuttering in and out of rhythm like it can’t remember how to beat properly.

“Even then.” A smile tugs the corner of Elon’s mouth, unconscious pleasure writing itself over his face, his freckles close enough for Micah to count. “It’s still there.” And then he looks up, attention jumping back to Micah’s eyes before Micah has time to process how he’s looking at Elon, before he can even decide if he wants to stop, much less figure out how to do it. Elon’s eyes go wider for a moment, surprise spreading out over his face like daybreak; and then he looks down, at his touch still skimming Micah’s mouth, and takes a breath like understanding. Micah feels like the air is coming straight from his lungs, leaving him high-altitude breathless, and then Elon leans in, crosses the few inches of space between them like they don’t exist, and presses his mouth against Micah’s. His lips are soft, his mouth is warm, and then his thumb slides away and they’re kissing properly, Micah leaning in on an instinct that doesn’t check in with his rationality on the way to action. His fingers are stalled in Elon’s hair, he realizes distantly, but when he moves it’s only to steady his hold into something more deliberate, wide-spread fingers to keep the other where he is while Micah’s blood goes hot with electricity from Elon’s lips. Micah leans in closer, pushes against the nonexistent resistance in Elon’s shoulders, and Elon makes a sound, something low and hot that drags Micah away in a sudden rush of panic.

“Sorry,” he says, but he can’t pull away, his hand is still in Elon’s hair and there’s something holding him still, Elon’s fingers wound into a fist at the front of his shirt. “Sorry, I--” and then he realizes Elon kissed him first, that he was responding instead of initiating, that the sound Elon made was so far from protest it might as well have been a demand for more.

“Micah,” Elon says, and his voice is so low and so warm Micah’s leaning in before he’s done talking, close enough that Elon’s words spill into unintelligibility over Micah’s mouth. “I’m not” which is good, really, because Micah’s kissing him again, is pulling him in to match the drag Elon makes at his shirt, and this time Micah can taste the pleasure on Elon’s whimper, might be humming appreciation himself, isn’t sure and can’t pause to find out because Elon’s other hand is up against his shoulder, is sliding up against the back of his neck with that gently unbreakable hold Micah remembers from their last sparring match.

Micah doesn’t make any attempt to pull away.


	17. Priorities

Micah comes awake slowly. It’s early still, according to his internal clock, and the recently-overwritten habits of sleeping past breakfast urge him to roll back over into the warm of his blankets, to press his face in against his pillow and seek out another round of dreams or at least a five-minute doze before really committing to wakefulness. He shifts against the soft of the blankets, turns over to blink across the tent, and then he sees that Elon is awake, and everything in his head goes still and silent as memory reasserts itself into his awareness.

Elon shifts, shoulders tipping in like he’s curling in on himself, or perhaps like he’s trying to cross the distance to Micah’s side of the tent, or maybe it’s because he’s only just transformed back and hasn’t yet settled into the extra space of his human form. His eyes are wide, his mouth is soft, and Micah hadn’t intended to be staring at Elon’s mouth so soon this morning but that seems to be what’s happening, regardless of his intention.

“Hey,” Micah says, softer than usual, oddly breathless on the adrenaline of recollection in his veins. His mouth tugs into a smile, the motion taut with nerves and embarrassed pleasure that he can feel flushing across his cheeks to match. “Morning.”

“Good morning,” Elon says, echoing Micah’s soft tone so the syllables slide into a lilt in his throat. His gaze is skimming Micah’s face, tracing out over his features like a touch, like he’s never seen him before; Micah blushes harder, self-consciousness taking over his expression in spite of his best efforts to the contrary, but Elon doesn’t seem to notice, or doesn’t react if he does notice. He’s still tipping in, angled so sharply forward Micah can see the effort of balance trembling in his shoulders, and he probably doesn’t realize his lips are parted but Micah does, Micah can’t seem to draw his gaze away.

He swallows hard, attempts teasing as he pushes himself upright. “Have you been watching me sleep long?” His hands are shaking, he doesn’t know what to do with them; he settles for resting them over the top of the blankets, the curl of his fingers as relaxed as he can make it with the anxiety of possibility coursing through his blood.

“No,” Elon says, swift with concern. “I only woke up a few minutes ago.”

“That’s good,” Micah says, attempting banter that falls flat even before he looks up from his hands and back at Elon tilting forward as if to bridge the gap between them by sheer force of will alone. “Good.” And he’s stalled out, he’s caught by Elon’s eyes, Elon’s hair, Elon’s  _mouth_ , he’s leaning forward without thinking to meet and match the other’s angle.

Elon take a breath, shudders it free into the air between them. “Do we need to go to breakfast?” he asks, his voice dipping the question into a hopeful plea. “You said last night--”

“Yeah,” Micah cuts him off, because he’s  _thinking_  about last night, and in detail well beyond the claim he made that they should sleep and also that they should save further romantic pursuits for the evenings, when they don’t have breakfast to eat and missions to prepare for. What seemed reasonable last night with his mouth hot with newfound friction from Elon’s seems a lot less reasonable by day, when everything from the gold-lit glow of last night feels dreamlike and illusory, like the sunlight might chase it out of reality entirely. “I remember.”

Micah reaches out, sets his palm flat against the floor of the tent so he can move in closer. Elon’s eyes flicker down to track the motion, his hand moving so fast it’s like he was waiting on Micah’s cue to act. Their fingers brush, tangle, and they’re not quite holding hands but from how hot Elon’s touch feels Micah thinks it doesn’t matter.

“Breakfast is important,” Elon says as Micah leans closer and watches Elon’s eyelashes flutter with his proximity. “You said so yesterday.”

“Yeah,”Micah agrees. He reaches up to touch the bedhead tangle of Elon’s hair, to smooth the curls in over the other’s ear. Elon’s head tips sideways at the minimal pressure, his neck curving into a smooth line that draws Micah’s fingers as much as his eyes. “Do you want to go to breakfast?”

“No,” Elon says instantly, without a heartbeat of hesitation. He’s leaning in closer, the warmth of his breathing catching at Micah’s collar, his hair threatening the other’s. “I want to kiss you some more.”

Micah’s breathing stutters at the words, his chest constricts like it’s trying to collapse and expand at the same time; he turns to ghost his lips against Elon’s ear, reaches to press his fingers in unbearable gentleness against Elon’s hip.

“Yeah?” he says, rhetorical even though the word skips high and sincere in his throat. “That’s convenient,” and he wants to say something about  _me too_ , wants to find the composure for a grin and a line about being on the same page, but Elon is turning towards him and Micah has far better uses for his mouth than speech. They lean in together on some unstated instinct, Elon’s eyes shutting in Micah’s periphery as he sighs a note of incoherent satisfaction, and then Micah’s lips are falling into place against Elon’s, and Elon is making a tiny pleased sound of utter contentment, and even Micah’s best attempt at speech evaporates into warmth skipping electric down his spine.

Micah doesn’t know if Elon is a good kisser. It seems unlikely that he’s had much personal experience, but then again Micah has so little from so long ago that this is near-foreign territory for him as well. What he  _does_  know is that he likes the tiny notes of reaction he can win from Elon when he pushes in closer, likes the way the sound tastes on his tongue, likes the way the vibration goes resonant against his mouth to fill him up from the inside. Elon’s free hand is in his hair, fingers winding through the strands like another temporary braid, and he’s leaning in close, closer, they’re pressed together like they’re trying to take in the other’s body heat right through the barrier of their clothes.

“I wasn’t sure you’d want this again in the morning,” Micah admits when Elon breaks away from sucking friction against his lower lip to kiss his cheek, his jaw, down against the side of his neck under his sleep-rumpled hair. Micah’s hand at Elon’s waist has steadied itself, pressed itself in closer sometime when Micah was too distracted to notice how oddly light Elon feels under his touch, as if even his human bones are hollow, as if he’s made of air instead of more mortal stuff.

“I wanted it,” Elon says against his neck, the sound of the words tangling into Micah’s hair and fitting hot against the collar of his undershirt. Micah has never before been so aware of the barrier presented by the thin fabric. “I want it now.” Another kiss at his throat, distracted affection against Micah’s skin, and then Elon’s back for his mouth, breathing hard enough that the air runs hot on Micah’s lips. “Micah.”

“Yeah,” Micah says, leaning in for another drag of friction over Elon’s mouth, fingers tightening to press hard against the other’s shirt because he’s not sure they’re ever going to make it out of the tent at all if he pushes up against the fabric and gets his fingertips against the warm flush of Elon’s skin. It’s distracting enough as it is, as they are, with Elon arching in against him and sliding his knees to fit between Micah’s, to angle their legs into contact that Micah can’t find it in him to protest any more than to regret.

Micah misses the call for breakfast, and if Elon hears it he doesn’t say. Micah doesn’t care. He’s done without in pursuit of a few more hours of sleep before; to skip it in pursuit of the soft give of Elon’s mouth under his and the arch of Elon curving in against him is by far the better exchange.


	18. Coherent

They don’t make it to breakfast. As far as Micah is concerned, it’s a minor miracle that they make it out of the tent at all by the time they are supposed to meet for the start of the scouting mission; his sense of time, usually decent if not perfect, apparently goes haywire when it runs up against the distraction of Elon’s eyes and hands and lips. Five minutes stretches into an hour, two, a minor infinity spent with Elon’s fingers dragging through his hair and Micah breathing air off the other’s lips, but any advantage they gain from the time dilation is lost in a heartbeat, in the gap between Elon’s stuttered giggle and Micah’s sudden laughter. In the end it’s the rush that pulls them apart, Warnock’s distant shout to finish breakfast that jolts Micah with enough panic to give up on kissing for the moment in exchange for showing up in something at least approximating tidiness. He scrambles into a clean shirt, drags a hand through his rumpled hair while he’s looking for socks; in the distraction he doesn’t have time to stare at the flex of Elon’s narrow shoulders as he sheds his undershirt and replaces it with a clean one, can’t spare more than a skipped heartbeat for the familiar made suggestive by such a short time and such a small change.

Elon’s ready as soon as Micah is, the both of them dragging on their boots in almost-synchronization. Micah succeeds first, practiced haste winning out over Elon’s habitual deliberation, and he’s two solid strides down the path before Elon skids forward to catch up with him, reaching out to catch his windmilling balance at Micah’s elbow and then not letting go, his fingers curling into contact too electric for Micah to think about at any length. If he stops he’ll get distracted, by the sound of Elon’s breathing or the fit of his collar against his throat or the feel of those fingers flexing into an unshakeable hold at his arm, and they don’t have the time for that, not if they’re to be punctual.

They make it on time, if only just. They have to jog the last few steps to join the group ahead of Talim, delayed by his need to finish another slice of toast on his way in, and they’re both obviously out of breath, but the rush in will explain that as well as the actual cause in the hum of shared awareness Micah can taste copper-bright in the air. The squad leader doesn’t even glance at them; she’s watching her Wing instead, clearly waiting for some kind of signal between just the two of them. There’s a pause of anticipation, the whole dozen of them hesitating to move or even to speak; then the Wing turns, looks off towards the trees, and the leader lifts an arm in silent and well-understood signal.

“Elon,” Micah says carefully as they step forward, keeping his eyes on the ground in front of him instead of risking the sideways glance that will let him see the expression the other is wearing. “I think you should transform.”

“What?” Elon asks, his voice dipping low to match Micah’s almost-whisper, and he must be leaning in close; Micah can feel Elon’s exhale brushing against his hair. “Right now?”

“Yeah,” Micah says, eyeing the way Talim is cutting across the ground towards them and talking fast. “I, uh, I need to stay focused.”

“You’ve been able to focus before--” and Elon cuts himself off so suddenly Micah can’t help but glance at him to share the tension of the laugh tugging at the corner of his lips. Elon’s eyes drop to his mouth, catch and linger there, and Micah can feel his whole body flash sun-bright in the instant before Elon touches his tongue to his lip and says, “Ah” with the sharp clarity of epiphany. The hold at Micah’s arm eases, drags up to brace at his shoulder instead, and then the gold of Elon’s stare vanishes into a flutter of shadow, a silent rush of air and a sweep of wings before the weight of a kite is settling against Micah’s shoulder instead.

“You’re very distracting,” Micah says to Elon, looking sideways at that same gold-eyed consideration as Talim falls into step with them. Elon flicks his wings at this claim, catches at Micah’s hair with the motion, and he’s tugging the strands in silent affection as Talim leans in close enough to speak without breaking the general quiet of the group.

“Where  _were_  you at breakfast?” He’s grinning but there’s no humor in it; from how white he is, Micah thinks he’s trying to fight off hysteria more than really interested in the answer. “I needed to interrogate you since Lia is the least helpful person ever.”

“We got a late start,” Micah says, because it’s ostensibly true and he’s sure this isn’t the right forum to announce a brand-new romance between himself and his assigned partner, even if he were sure that they wanted that to be public knowledge as yet. There’s something pleasant about the secrecy of it, something warm and as bright as Elon’s eyes, to have the awareness shared in the very few inches of space between him and the Wing at his shoulder. “This isn’t even your first mission, is it?”

“It’s my first with Brynne,” Talim clarifies, glancing up ahead at the squad leader’s shoulders as she picks her way forward. “She’s famous for efficiency, everyone says her squad’s the hardest.”

“This is our first time with her too,” Micah points out. “We’re not going to be of much use.”

Talim waves a hand to sweep aside this protest. Elon shifts his weight, one wing flicking out to balance as Micah’s footing slips for a moment; Micah reaches up unthinking, catches his fingers against the smooth of Elon’s feathers to steady him, and doesn’t pull away again as Talim goes on speaking.

“Yeah, but you’re the best of us trainees. Except for Lia and Trea, and they’re both super intimidating.”

Micah gives Talim a sideways glance, feels a grin threatening his mouth. “I think Lia likes you, actually.”

“What?” Talim’s head snaps around, all his attention instantly diverted from his vague consideration of their surroundings to the conversation. “Wait,  _what_?”

“Not romantically,” Micah equivocates. “But she doesn’t hate you or anything. She’s just quiet.”

“ _Intimidating_ ,” Talim reiterates, like he’s translating, and then Brynne’s voice cuts off their conversation, a sharp snap of “Wings, transform!” derailing whatever side discussions were happening.

“Shit,” Talim says, “Patrick?” but his partner is already dropping into his other form, shedding humanity for feathers with a flutter of movement that manages to convey all the frustration of an eyeroll via the flare of tailfeathers and the tilt of a head.

“Grounds, keep your eyes open.” Brynne’s voice is clear, carrying over the soft sound of footsteps and the far-off rush of wind through the trees, but she sounds focused more than aggressive, like her attention is nearly entirely dedicated to what she’s doing with very little left to soften her tone to friendliness. “Wings, ready to move.” Micah lets his hand trail off Elon’s feathers, holds his arm out in front of him; Elon takes the suggestion without any further indication, hopping from shoulder to wrist and flaring his wings half-out in expectation. There’s a beat of stillness, the faint rustle of feathers as Wings settle into the taut silence of expectation; then Brynne throws up an arm, unmistakeable indication of movement even before her partner launches off her shoulder, and the entire group moves at once, Patrick darting into the air full wingbeats ahead of Micah swinging Elon up and towards the blue sky overhead.

“Backs in,” Brynne says, while Micah is still caught in the chest-tightening pleasure of watching Elon fly. “Face out, keep your eyes on the surroundings. Report back as soon as you have clear information from your partners.”

“Jesus,” Talim breathes at Micah’s side, so softly Micah isn’t sure even he is intended to hear the sound. “This is  _intense_.” Micah smiles, an attempt at agreement without the distraction of speech, and then they’re turning, falling in shoulder-to-shoulder to look out at the stillness of the forest around them. Micah can feel adrenaline surging through his veins, pounding not-quite panic into his pulse, until his vision is drawing everything into hyper-clarity, each leaf he sees a brief distraction before he can keep himself scanning. When he breathes in he can taste the chill in the air filling his lungs, can feel the wind catching at the strands of his hair not held down into braids, and that seemed like a single train of thought but suddenly it’s Elon he’s thinking of, the hazy shadow of dark lashes over bright eyes, the breathless hum of pleasure he made when Micah leaned in to press a last quick kiss to his lips before they left their tent. Micah’s skin flashes hot, his attention scattering to the draw of daydreams, and he has to shove them away, has to push aside any thoughts of Elon at all to keep his focus in place. This is minimally effective, leaves him tense and stressed with the effort to stay in the present and not the recent past or oncoming future, until Talim blurting “Here they come!” is more relief than surprise. Micah turns with the rest of the group, the handful of them shifting on an unspoken understanding like a wave, and the Wings are dropping from dark smudges against the bright sky into clarity, distinct wing shapes and flight paths, and then Micah picks Elon out of the group and takes an unconscious step in, reaches out to catch the other’s wrist before he’s even dropped back into humanity.

“Elon,” Micah says, hands closing on Elon’s arm, on Elon’s waist, catching his weight well before he’s determined if the other actually needs his help or not. It’s an impulse he doesn’t get a chance to think through, a step and a grab and Elon right there, his hand coming up to catch at Micah’s shoulder and slide against the back of his neck.

“East,” Elon says, clear and sharp and certain. “Seven.”

“Neutrals!” a shout comes, and “Scouting party,” comes another, and Micah has to look away from Elon’s eyes to yell “Seven to the east!” in a rush of information spilling over his tongue too fast to think through. Talim glances at him, startled into attention by his shout, but Micah is looking back to Elon, ready for any additional information he might have. Elon’s watching him, vision steadying back with every shift of his eyelashes, until when he says, “Not enemies” it’s as coherent as he usually is. “I think they’re--”

“We got it,” Brynne shouts, talking over Elon’s voice, and Elon twists to look at her, his hold against Micah’s neck sliding away with the movement. Micah lets him go, eases off his hold on Elon’s arm too; his heart is going too fast anyway, adrenaline and relief competing for control of him and thrumming through his veins until it’s Elon who’s the steadier of the two of them. Micah lets his fingers drag away, presses a line against Elon’s wrist as he pulls away in expectation of a possible audience -- and Elon’s fingers tighten, curl tight around his for a moment of pressure that Micah is only just processing when it is gone. The warmth comes after, a slow spread of heat up his arm and out against the inside of his chest, until by the time Brynne steps forward to lead them back towards the camp, Micah doesn’t need the weight of Elon -- safely transformed back into a kite -- settling onto his shoulder to pull his lips into the curve of a smile.


	19. Consensus

Micah is very sure he could get used to this. It’s probably not a good idea to deprive himself of so much sleep on a regular basis, and he’s afraid to pull open the tent flap to see how late it’s gotten while he and Elon have been hiding in their gold-lit island of shared space, but just at the moment the hours of lost sleep feel worth it for the way Elon’s head fits against the center of his chest, the way the curls of the other’s hair tangle around his fingers like they’re trying to hold onto him.

“That feels good,” Elon says needlessly as Micah drags his fingers around the curve of an ear and ruffles the dark strands that layer the back of the other’s neck. Elon tucks his head forward, sighing at the friction, and Micah smiles drowsy contentment and trails through the motion in reverse as he watches the way Elon’s neck curves to make an offering of his hair for Micah’s fingers.

“I guess I do owe you,” Micah allows, spreading his fingers wider and rumpling through all of Elon’s hair at once. “ _Is_  this like preening?”

“A little,” Elon says, sounding dazed and overheated, like he’s struggling for words even though he’s been in human form ever since they made it into the tent and Micah reached to catch his fingers into a fist at the front of Elon’s shirt. “It feels different than with feathers.”

“And that’s what you’ve been doing?” Micah asks. If he angles his head to the side he can just see the shadow of Elon’s eyelashes against his cheek. “Preening me?”

Elon hums himself into the possibility of a laugh, amusement and sleepy satisfaction in equal parts in his throat. “Yeah.”

“Flirt,” Micah accuses, smiling to take off any bite the word might have. “I should have kissed you weeks ago.”

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Elon offers. When he shifts his hand it’s to urge up the bottom edge of Micah’s shirt and skim his fingertip against the other’s skin. Micah can feel the friction spread up the whole length of his spine to ride the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Micah lets his hand trail through the mess he’s made of Elon’s hair, drags his fingertips down against the smatter of freckles printed across the other’s cheek. “Had you thought about it before?”  
“No,” Elon says with no attempt at all to ease the rejection of the word. “But I wouldn’t have minded.” He shifts his weight without opening his eyes, smiling as he pushes back to fit in closer against Micah. “Had  _you_?”

“No,” Micah says, but it tastes like a lie on his tongue. “Maybe? Not consciously.”

“You don’t sound very sure,” Elon points out, and Micah huffs a laugh at his own expense, lets his hand slide down to cover Elon’s mouth.

“Be quiet,” he orders, although his hold isn’t very tight and he can feel Elon smiling against his palm. “You should be sleeping.”

“You should too,” Elon says against his palm, and then he’s turning, twisting over and away from Micah’s hold on his mouth so he can blink gold at the other. Micah’s hand ends up in his hair instead, Elon shifting to fit inside the crook of his elbow, and Micah’s smiling without thinking about it at all, a little dazed on lack of sleep and a lot warm on the starstruck pleasure still new enough to be startling when he thinks of it.

“I’m your partner,” Micah observes, adopting the sternest voice he can with Elon glowing happiness at him. There’s a tug at the corner of his shirt, fingers fitting under the hem and against his skin, and his breath catches for a moment before he can find the air to go on speaking. “I’m--I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to take care of you.”

“I’m your partner too,” Elon says, and he’s closer now, he’s been leaning in while Micah wasn’t paying attention or maybe while he was distracted by the fingers sliding up against his waist and ticklish across the bottom edge of his ribcage. “We’re supposed to take care of each other.”

“Right,” Micah says, arches off the floor so Elon can fit his hand in under his back and up along the curve of his spine. “I guess we have to come to a consensus, then, right?”

“Right,” Elon says, and Micah draws his fingers into the other’s hair and watches Elon’s expression go slack with heat, watches his head dip down in instinctive submission to the friction against his scalp. “ _Ah_.”

“Do you want to sleep?” Micah asks, reaching up to close his hand on Elon’s hip and pull him sideways until their legs are tangled together, until Elon is more on top of Micah than he is on the blankets across the floor of the tent. Elon’s eyelashes flutter in a visible struggle for clarity of vision; he catches Micah’s gaze for a moment but loses it immediately, ends up staring at the other’s jawline instead with such intensity Micah can feel himself flushing hot in anticipation.

“No,” Elon says.

“Me either,” Micah admits, and Elon’s leaning in without waiting for the confirmation, fitting his mouth to Micah’s throat as smoothly as his fingers fit against the pattern of Micah’s spine. Micah turns his head, strokes through Elon’s hair, and Elon makes a tiny sound against him, a shudder and a moan rolled into one note that shudders electric over Micah’s skin. Micah’s breathing hitches in his chest, his fingers tighten, and for a moment he can’t even find the words to speak, can’t do anything except turn in and press his breathing hot into Elon’s hair.

“Who needs sleep anyway?” he manages after a few seconds of effort. Even that comes out shaky, tense and straining around the distraction of Elon’s mouth against his throat and the minimal weight of the other against him, but it’s enough to drag the hum of laughter from Elon he wanted. Micah grins victory against dark hair and Elon turns in towards him, his smile bumping against Micah’s for a moment before they can stop laughing long enough to find the shape of a proper kiss against the other’s mouth.

It’s another hour before they surrender to sleep.


	20. Synchronization

The crowd starts to form after the first half hour. Micah can see them in his periphery, can hear the  low murmurs of intrigue from the rest of the Corps as Grounds and Wings alike slow and stop to watch them. There’s the pattern of speech too, loud enough that he can catch individual words and could hear whole sentences if he had the attention to spare, but he ignores them, pushes them to the back of his head the same way he ignores the distraction of the trees around them and the constant motion of the camp.

He needs his full attention for Elon.

Micah had expected sparring practice to be more challenging with the memory of Elon’s mouth against his and the knowledge of how warm Elon’s skin feels under the loose fall of his shirt printed into Micah’s fingertips. There is a distraction lurking behind Elon’s eyes, now, a suggestion layered under the gold that Micah finds dragging him into daydreams during Warnock’s announcements or over the casual chatter that comes with dinner. But there’s something different about sparring, something in the physical rhythm of it that absorbs all the potential distraction Micah might otherwise suffer from, and when he looks at Elon now it’s with the same instinctive focus that Elon is turning on him. Micah’s watching Elon’s shoulder to see the way it braces to give away an oncoming attempt at a hit; when he skids sideways to dodge, Elon is watching his feet and falls back to reorient to Micah’s new stance. Micah’s heart is pounding adrenaline but his thoughts are clear, pristine, like they’re someone else’s or like his body is thinking for him, moving of its own accord in response to giveaways in Elon’s stance that Micah doesn’t even consciously notice until he’s already reacted to them.

He has no idea how long it’s been. The sun is beating against the back of his neck, drawing the perspiration of effort to slick against his skin and trickle along his hairline, but Micah doesn’t feel tired; he feels electric, like he’s running on some impulse wholly separate from his own body, like he’s following the steps to some kind of dance that neither he nor Elon have ever deliberately learned and yet can both perform perfectly. The ring of observers forming around them is trivial compared to that, the conversations of surprise and interest not worth paying attention to until the match is over.

Elon moves in again. Micah can see it coming, can chart the whole trajectory of the motion as soon as Elon’s boot braces against the dirt below them. Micah tips sideways, clear of the initial impact -- and Elon’s fingers drag over his shirt, a sudden grab made unpredictable by how impulsive it is. Micah twists away as soon as he realizes, tries to break free of Elon’s hold before it’s steadied, but Elon’s stepping in to trail him, his other arm coming up to catch around Micah’s shoulder and pin him to immobility. Micah’s veins go hot, his body producing an extra surge of adrenaline from reserves that must be running low, by now, and his hand snaps up, fingers closing with all the strength he has to his advantage around Elon’s wrist.

“Got you,” he says, the words turning into a grin of victory without thinking, and he ducks under Elon’s arm, takes a step sideways to shove his shoulder into Elon’s chest while the other is taking a stuttering pattern of steps backwards. The retreat makes Micah’s impact softer, eases it out of its initial force; for a moment their fate is undecided, the balance between Elon’s half-caught footing and Micah’s push hovering between them. But then Elon makes a sound, a soft, startled note of instinctive panic, and they’re falling, Elon giving up his hold on Micah’s shirt to cushion some of the impact against his arm instead. Micah gets a hand out too, saves Elon from the crush of his full weight as he lands, but it’s still enough to knock all the air out of Elon’s lungs, to leave him gasping and stunned into compliance for the moment Micah needs to press an arm against his chest and pin him down to the ground.

“My win,” he says, the words coming strange and hoarse on the physical exertion he can’t yet feel for the numb of his own adrenaline. Elon blinks, catches an inhale Micah can feel under the pressure of his arm, and then his eyes refocus, gold coming into clarity as his breathing steadies. Micah can see the freckles gone dark under the sheen of sweat across Elon’s skin, can see the way his black hair is caught flat to his forehead, and whatever focus saved him from distraction during the match itself cracks and vanishes in a rush. He can feel Elon’s breath hot against his skin, can see the exhausted haze in Elon’s eyes; they’re pinned together nearly as close as they are in the evenings, when Elon’s hands are in Micah’s hair and Micah’s mouth is against Elon’s skin, and when Micah’s lungs struggle for air it’s from the pressure of heat in his veins instead of the ache of exhaustion through his body.

“This is the goal,” a familiar voice calls, projecting clear over the half-stifled murmurs around them, and Micah looks up, his attention drawn away from Elon’s too-close features in reflexive response to Warnock’s voice. He’s standing at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, looking down at them with approval writ clear all over his face.

“Sir,” Micah blurts, feels himself start to flush as he topples sideways to struggle to his feet, but Warnock isn’t looking at him anymore; he’s looking out at their audience, speaking louder as he waves a hand to gesture expansively at Micah and Elon as they return to upright.

“This is what good teamwork looks like,” Warnock declares. “You should be able to anticipate your partner’s movements enough to make competition like this challenging. How long were you at it?” he asks, so suddenly Micah fumbles over his response and it’s Elon who answers “An hour?” the words swinging up at the end into a question to match the uncertain glance he gives the position of the sun overhead.

“That long without a winner,” Warnock says, approval easing the gruff edge of his voice into something closer to pride, a rough note of satisfaction audible in his throat. He reaches out for Micah’s shoulder, hand landing hard between his shoulderblades and pushing him around as Elon stumbles under similar treatment, still looking dazed and off-balance from what little Micah can see of him past the breadth of Warnock stepping between them. “ _Synchronization_ ,” Warnock says, looking around at the cluster of watchers. “ _This_  is what you’re aiming for.” The hand at Micah’s shoulders lifts, comes down again with an impact that is probably intended to be reassuring and leaves Micah a little bit breathless.

“Whatever you’re doing is working,” Warnock says, stepping back and turning away before either Micah or Elon has fully recovered his balance. “Keep it up.”

Micah glances at Elon and realizes immediately this is a mistake; there’s sunlight behind Elon’s eyes, amusement only barely repressed into a twist at his mouth instead of a full-blown laugh at this implicit approval of their recently improved relationship. Elon might be able to repress the laughter but it catches Micah unawares; he gives in to a burst of sound, makes an effort to turn it into a cough that feels entirely put-on as Warnock looks back to raise an eyebrow at him.

“Yes,” he manages, aware of Elon fighting back amusement in his periphery. “We will, sir.”

Micah manages to refrain from looking at Elon again until Warnock is far enough away that he won’t hear the spill of irrepressible laughter that comes from them both the moment they make eye contact again.


	21. Anticipation

“You did really well today,” Micah offers to the top of Elon’s bowed head, ruffling his fingers through the dark strands like he’s working free nonexistent knots. “I think you’re getting better at communication right after you change back.”

“Mm,” Elon hums, sounding unconvinced as Micah’s fingers press against his neck and slide under the edge of his collar. “I think  _you’re_  getting better at understanding me.”

“Oh yeah?” Micah grins and fits his thumb in against the edge of Elon’s jaw to watches the other’s head cant sideways, his motion made easy by the instinct of pleasure in the contact. “Are you going to stay a kite next time and leave me to figure you out telepathically?”

“Sure,” Elon says, slow, like he’s really thinking about the idea. He reaches out to brace his hand against the blankets under them, lets his body angle sideways and into steadiness so Micah can offer more force to work out the knot of tension under his fingers. “You could do it.”

“You have way too much faith in me,” Micah observes, sliding in closer and letting his other hand drop to catch at Elon’s waist, to hold the odd fragility of his body in place against the press of Micah’s hand at his shoulder. “Until I figure out how to transform myself I think we’re stuck with speaking aloud.”

Elon hums a laugh, something soft and so quiet it’s more of a croon than amusement. “I’m sure you’d be a beautiful Wing.”

“You’re full of compliments tonight,” Micah observes, leaning in closer to press himself against Elon’s shoulders. His mouth fits against warm skin, Elon makes another faint sound of appreciation, and Micah smiles into the kiss he’s forming at the edge of Elon’s collar. “Are you trying to get into my good graces?”

“I’m being honest,” Elon protests, his hand coming up to fit against Micah’s hair. Micah hums at his throat, kisses sideways up against the line of Elon’s jaw, and gets himself a hum of response as Elon’s fingers find a hold in his hair. “I don’t mean to sound insincere.”

“I know,” Micah soothes, draping his arm around Elon’s shoulders and coming up to fit his lips against the dark of sun-formed freckles. “You’re always honest.”

Elon sighs, warmth audible in his throat as he turns in over the blankets to press his shoulder to Micah’s chest. His eyelashes are very dark, his attention drawing down to cling against Micah’s mouth as his lips part into suggestion. “Micah.”

“Yeah,” Micah says, or intends to say, but what he’s doing is leaning in too close for his words to hold their shape, and the sound he’s making is a hum against the corner of Elon’s mouth as the soft of the other’s lips curves into a smile, as he twists in to fit himself to Micah. An arm comes out around Micah’s shoulders, fingers fit against the soft of his undershirt, and Elon folds himself into the other boy’s lap, twisting until they’re facing each other and his legs are caught around Micah’s hips instead of stretched over the unused space of their shared tent. Micah’s hand finds the curve of Elon’s spine, hitches up the thin fabric of his undershirt until his fingers are skimming bare skin and Elon is sighing appreciation against his mouth, until the actual friction of kissing gives way to the catch of hands at and under clothing, until they’re more sharing each other’s too-fast breathing than shaping the contact into deliberate pressure. Elon’s fingers are in Micah’s hair and pushing up under the weight of his shirt, and Micah’s turning his head in submission to the friction, filling his lungs with the heat of the air between them as his skin comes alight under Elon’s touch. He has one hand up high under Elon’s clothes, fingers spread wide over the shift of shoulderblade under skin, and Elon’s pushing in closer, bearing him down to the blankets more by accident than intent. Micah keeps his hold, pulls Elon down on top of him as he goes, and then Elon makes a faint desperate noise and shifts his weight to fit a knee between Micah’s, and Micah sees where this is going a moment before Elon rocks forward against him and his thoughts dissolve into starburst heat.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, too loud and too suddenly, hand drawing tight at Elon’s hip. “ _Elon_.”

“Micah,” Elon says again, the sound gone breathless and hot and shaky in his throat, and he moves again, tilts his hips forward in a deliberate action that draws all the air out of Micah’s lungs in a gasp of something between shock and pleasure. Elon’s too close, Micah can’t see anything but the dark of his eyelashes and the damp of his parted lips; he’s leaning in as if for a kiss but the motion stalls just shy of contact, leaves Elon with his nose bumping Micah’s cheekbone and gasping air off Micah’s mouth as he finds a rhythm to the slow grind of his hips against the other’s.

“Wait,” Micah says, except it comes out sideways and turned around into a groan, and when his hand braces at Elon’s hip it’s to pull him down as Micah arches up to meet the press of Elon’s thigh. The friction is more taunting than satisfying, enough to spark up Micah’s spine and not enough to relieve any of the pressure spreading into his veins, but he can’t make himself stop, not with Elon gasping for air over him and holding to his hair with shaking fingers. Elon is warmer than Micah has ever known him to be before, his skin clinging damp with the suggestion of sweat when Micah’s hand slides across it, and they’re falling into a rhythm against each other as Micah’s heart speeds into overdrive, as Micah’s hand forms into a fist at the edge of Elon’s pants to drag him down harder with assumed rather than true weight.

“Oh,” Elon gasps, a startled burst of sound, and his weight shifts with the unthinking grace of reflexive action, his hips angling to press hard at Micah’s. They’re both still dressed, mostly, but the layers of cloth between them aren’t enough to offer any disguise for how hard Elon is, for how hard  _Micah_  is, for how painfully close they both are to skin-on-skin contact. “You’re.” His hand draws tight, his fingers at Micah’s waist slide down, and Micah’s whole body goes taut with anticipation in the heartbeat of time between Elon’s motion and the catch of fingertips at the edge of his pants.

“Wait,” he manages again, audibly this time even though the word sounds like a groan, lets his hold on Elon’s hip go to catch at the shift of the other’s wrist as his fingers slide over the edge of his clothes. “We...we should stop.”

Elon whimpers, a wordless catch of air layered with dismay but no protest. When he tips his head in closer his lips catch at the corner of Micah’s mouth, form an unspoken request that Micah doesn’t make any attempt to refuse. He turns his head up instead, matches Elon’s mouth with his own, and when he lets his hold on the other’s wrist go Elon lets his touch linger where it is without pushing for more. Micah takes a breath, lets it shudder into an attempt at calm, and when he shifts Elon tips sideways with him, lets Micah draw them into a tangle of limbs that is somewhat less suggestive than their previous position.

“Next time,” Micah says against Elon’s mouth, pressing a kiss against his lips before pulling back to watch the way Elon’s eyes track his movement, the way the bright gold in his gaze dips dark and smoky under the weight of his lashes. Micah’s heartbeat is slowing out of the frantic almost-panic he was trapped in for a moment, the pain of too-much adrenaline easing back into a tingling warmth made familiar by repetition over the last several evenings with Elon. There’s an ache under his skin, desire pulling into almost-hurt against the tension in his spine, but Elon is still pressing in as close as he can get, his fingers still clinging to the edge of Micah’s clothes like a promise, like an extended kiss. “When we don’t have a mission in the morning.”

Elon takes a breath, lets it out in a long shudder like he’s stretching, like he’s letting the ache of anticipation in his veins dissipate into patience. “Okay,” he says, breathing the words against the corner of Micah’s mouth while his fingers ease on the half-formed braids in the other’s hair and slide down against the back of his neck. “Next time.”

“Yeah,” Micah says, and then, spilling raw and hot in his throat: “God, Elon, next time I’m going to--” before self-consciousness sticks his throat closed and crests heat all across his cheekbones. There’s a pause, enough time for Elon to blink away from Micah’s mouth and draw back enough to take in his expression; then Micah sees the tension tug into a smile at the corner of the other’s lips and knows that he’s in trouble before Elon speaks.

“You’re going to what?” Elon asks, the question coming so level and unsuspicious Micah would believe it to be innocent if not for the smoke and shadows clinging to Elon’s lashes and the smile threatening the corner of his mouth.

“Never mind,” Micah tries, knowing it’s a futile cause as his blush darkens into a glow he can feel spreading down to his neck and up to his hairline.

“What are you going to do?” Elon purrs, repressed laughter audible in his tone, and arches himself in close, the tilt of his hips as much a suggestion as the resonance of delight on his voice.

“Shut up,” Micah says, his voice falling to a laugh as his cheeks fall to a blush, ducking in to press his head against Elon’s shoulder and the quiver of amusement against the line of his neck.

“You should tell me,” Elon says, tilting his head back to make an offering of his throat, the suggestion too tempting for Micah to not take. Micah turns his head, fits his mouth to the curve of Elon’s neck against his shoulder, and shuts his eyes so he can focus on the way his lips drag against warm skin when he speaks.

“You  _know_ ,” he says, flushing hot all over just at the idea, punctuating with a roll of his hips against Elon’s leg still tangled with his own. Elon goes silent, his words dying into a faint whimper, and Micah kisses harder at his skin, presses close until Elon’s fingers tighten into his hair again, until he can feel the strain of the other drawing him closer thrumming all through Elon’s arm from wrist up to the sharp angle of his shoulderblade.

When Micah lifts his head his embarrassment and Elon’s laughter are both gone, melted and lost in the warm of the air between them. Elon is quiet, now, his lips parted on words he has forgotten to speak, his eyes caught and held by his attention on Micah’s mouth. Micah fits a hand against dark hair, and ducks in towards Elon’s lips, and lets the warmth in his veins draw long and aching into anticipation.


	22. Efficient

The group goes very quiet when they hear the first sounds of the fighting.

Micah has been braced for the noise. It’s something they were warned about for this mission, part of the reason the group is a bare handful who were all warned on multiple occasions to prioritize silence over everything else. It’s less loud than he expected but it has a strange resonance, the grate of metal-on-metal with the carrying shouts of squad leaders laid over it, the sound of screams dampened by distance but still clear enough to chill Micah’s blood. Elon takes a step closer to him, near enough that their shoulders press together, and Micah doesn’t push him away, doesn’t  _want_  him to move in spite of the difficulty it adds to his footfalls. He reaches out without looking, his hand seeking the warmth of Elon’s skin, and when Elon shifts it’s to tangle their fingers together into a hold as bruisingly anxious as it is comforting.

It still lets Micah breathe easier.

Jesse’s leading the group, has had her eyes forward as they proceed from the camp. Now she looks back at them, a quick cut of motion calculated to catch the rest of their attention with minimal noise, and jerks her head towards a stand of trees clustered near enough together to cast a stripe of shadow dark even in the midst of the forest. Micah falls into step behind her, trailing her and the other pair on steps so quiet his own breathing sounds loud in comparison before they draw to a halt in the shadow of the trees. The pause is no comfort; without the distraction of motion Micah can feel how hard his heart is pounding in his chest, can feel the ache of adrenaline shivering through his body until it’s only his too-tight grip on Elon’s hand that keeps his arm from visibly shaking.

Jesse looks at Micah, Elon, looks at the other pair: two girls, Fiona and Rei, the Ground very young and the Wing older, her sharp eyes and cutting jawline giving her the appearance of the hawk she is even in her human state. They’re not holding hands any more than Alena is clinging to Jesse’s, but the Wing has a hand against the Ground’s shoulder like she’s bracing her in place, and the Ground’s dark skin looks nearly grey with how pale she has gone. It’s a comfort, Micah thinks, or at least it should be, to know that he’s not the only one afraid.

Jesse turns, scans the forest with a focus Micah can only admire without hope of imitation; with the bright orange of her hair hidden underneath a hat she looks like she belongs in this setting, like she’s as comfortable with the shadows of trees around her and the sounds of fighting a too-short distance away as she would be in the familiarity of the camp. Alena is watching her, too, affectionate pride clear in the tilt of her head and the fixed line of her shoulders; it makes Micah’s chest tighten in recognition for a moment, makes his hand clench hard against the fragility of Elon’s fingers, and then Jesse is moving, her arm swinging up in a clean, efficient gesture that leaves no doubt as to her meaning. Micah hears Elon take a breath, hears the shudder of it vibrating in the air; the sound is still audible when the hand in his evaporates, the space beside him turning to shadow so deep it seems to hold a physical presence before it condenses to the shape of a kite cutting a clean arc of flight up to the treetops. Micah can only see Elon for a moment; then he’s dipping over the tops of the trees, hugging the line of them far more tightly than he usually does, and Micah’s heart stutters into a brief moment of fright on his partner’s behalf.

Jesse’s hand lands on his shoulder. The contact is startling, seizes Micah’s body into a shudder of adrenaline, but he keeps his mouth shut on the shout of panic that threatens, and when he looks down Jesse isn’t looking at him, is staring straight ahead as she steers him and Fiona farther into the trees. Her expression is set, her gaze clear; if not for the pressure of the fingers at his shoulder, Micah wouldn’t be able to notice the tremor in her hand at all.

“Breathe,” she says without looking at either of the other two, without her voice breaking into anything louder than the rustle of the wind through the leaves overhead. “Pay attention.”

Micah does. It’s easier to focus on his surroundings than it has been on other missions; the adrenaline that is knotting the threat of a cramp between his shoulderblades and along his legs is desperate for something to do, all of him terrified at the possibility of ambush, until the process of scanning every shadow around them takes on real interest instead of the almost-idle habit Micah had developed over previous excursions. The Wings are supposed to be gone for a few minutes -- just long enough to sweep over the field of combat and return -- but with every heartbeat pounding into the forefront of Micah’s attention a second feels like minutes, a minute an hour, until even an attempt to mentally compensate for the effects of his panic isn’t enough to stop the strain of worry from creeping up his spine. He can feel concern turning to words, demanding voice against the back of teeth in spite of his orders to stay quiet; he opens his mouth more than once, going so far as to turn towards Jesse before seeing the steady focus on her face and shutting his mouth for another span of heartbeats.

The Wings appear out of nowhere. It’s Rei who comes in first, sweeping so close along the treetops that Micah can see the leaves rustle with the sweep of her wings; she doesn’t transform until she’s nearly to the ground, and then she catches her footing and moves forward as fast as she lands. She blinks hard, shakes her head as if to clear it, and then there’s another motion, a shape dipping down with a pattern of wingbeats that Micah recognizes even before he turns to properly see Elon’s arc of landing. He transforms early, falls the last foot to land heavily, and Micah can see Jesse cutting a glare at the accompanying sound but he doesn’t look away; there’s too much to read in the slant of Elon’s shoulders, in the panic that dropped him into human form so early.

“Something’s wrong,” Micah says, absolutely certain in the words as he reaches to grab for Elon’s wrist. Elon’s breathing hard, his shoulders shifting with the force of each inhale, the effort speaking to a distance travelled far greater than what he should have needed. “Are they trying to flank us?”

Elon looks up at him. His eyes are wide, startled at Micah’s offering of words, but mostly there’s relief in his face, a soft almost-sob of gratitude at his still silent lips as he nods.

“How many?” Micah asks, reaches out to catch Elon’s other arm and hold him up in case he needs the extra support. He glances up at the sky, considers the trajectory Elon made coming in against the angle of the sun overhead. “From the east?”

“Fifty,” Elon manages, choking the word out on a gasping exhale. “At least.”

“They’re trying to herd us,” Rei says, her voice cracking high and panicked on the words.

“Good,” Jesse says, her tone so rough on haste she sounds nearly angry. When Micah looks at her she’s watching him, her forehead creased into something that looks like confusion. “ _Fast_ ,” she continues, the word coming so suddenly he thinks maybe she didn’t intend to say it, and then she’s looking away, lifting a hand to the sky to gesture sharply towards the sounds of combat. Micah looks up and barely catches a glimpse of light shining off black wings as Alena banks and pivots to return in obedience to Jesse’s gesture.

“Back to camp,” Jesse says, grabbing at Fiona’s shoulder to propel her bodily back in the direction they came. “Stay quiet.” She looks at Micah again, that tension still in her forehead but mitigated, this time, by something at her mouth that might be a smile of approval; then she turns, her balance tilting forward, and when she breaks into a run it’s startling in both its silence and speed. She makes the long, loping strides she’s taking look easy; Micah only has a moment to watch her go before she’s vanished in the direction of the combat to carry the message out to the front lines.

“Come on,” Rei says, pitching her voice to carry to Micah and Elon as well as her partner; when Micah looks back she’s steering Fiona by her shoulders, urging her towards the camp while she tilts her head in a peremptory gesture at the two of them. “We’ll be in the way here.”

Micah moves, reflexive obedience pushing his adrenaline-strained legs into motion. Rei looks away as soon as they start moving, ducks her head to say something to Fiona too softly for Micah to catch; with her back turned Micah reaches for Elon’s hand again before he looks up to gauge the expression on the other’s face.

Elon’s looking at him, staring at Micah with eyes wide and dark with some emotion Micah can’t completely read. His hold is even tighter now than it was on the way out, like he thinks Micah might evaporate if he loosens his grip at all; it hurts but Micah doesn’t pull away, just squeezes back as hard and finds the words to murmur, “Are you okay?” low enough to fall into the cover of their footsteps.

“I’m glad,” Elon says in the sudden burst of speech that usually comes on the heels of his transformation. His hand tightens, his shoulder comes in; for a moment his weight is leaning hard at Micah’s arm, his forehead close enough that it bumps the braids holding Micah’s hair into some semblance of obedience. “You’re okay.”

Micah has to laugh. It’s made of the adrenaline still tingling in his veins and the stress collected at the back of his neck and along the arch of his spine, more relieved than it is amused, but he manages to choke it back into a huff of sound no louder than Elon’s words.

“I’m fine,” he says, turning his head sideways to bump his forehead to Elon’s. “I’m glad you’re okay too.”

When Elon tips his head in closer, Micah’s moving to meet him, to offer a ghost of a kiss over the fading sound of danger they leave behind them.


	23. Watching

They don’t move apart for the rest of the walk back to the camp. Micah knows they should; even with the others’ backs to them to save them from getting caught out in their increasingly affectionate contact, they’re still within a few miles of active combat, and the four of them could do with full attention on their surroundings. But with the brief friction of Elon’s mouth clinging to his Micah can’t find the will to pull away when Elon leans in to sigh against his neck, or when the other’s arm slides free of his hand to catch around his waist instead, or when he presses in so close his lips are in Micah’s hair, his breathing tangling into the strands like a kiss gone astray. Micah’s skin is tingling, prickling with adrenaline that has gone hot with anticipation instead of with the frightened panic of the mission, and when he reaches out it’s to curl his fingers against the back edge of Elon’s pants, to slide his thumb a half-inch under the waistband in contact that stays just this side of decent but is still enough to make Elon shudder, to drag his breathing audible with heat for a moment.

“Micah,” Elon says, voice quaking on the familiar syllables, and Micah can feel the heat that rushes through him at the tremor in Elon’s voice, at the way his usually level tone dips low and weirdly smoky on that one word.

“Yeah,” he says, and turns in against his better judgment, sacrifices his attention to their surroundings to look into the shimmering gold of Elon’s eyes, to let his gaze drop and linger at the part of Elon’s lips. “Back to the tent?”

Elon’s eyelashes flutter, his throat works over an inhale hard enough that Micah can hear the grate of effort that comes with it. The next step he takes is as much sideways as it is forward, the angle enough to bump his hip hard against Micah’s and hold the contact there. “Yes.”

Micah’s face goes hot, his cheeks coloring with self-consciousness for what is to come and embarrassment at his own too-obvious reaction as his body goes hot with another rush of desire in his veins, as his breathing tightens and sticks in his throat like he’s forgotten the reflexive rhythm of it.

“Okay,” he says, and leans in again because he can’t not, because he has to catch the weight of heat off Elon’s lower lip or die from the want of it. “Okay, let’s get back.” He has to make himself look away then, has to force his attention to the faint path in front of them and the shadows in the trees around them, and Elon doesn’t even make the attempt; he spends the entirety of the walk back nuzzling into Micah’s hair and letting the too-fast rhythm of his breathing pour suggestion against the other’s ear.

The camp is quiet when they arrive. There’s a lull in the middle of the day, Micah has found, a span of a quiet hour or two when everyone is training or out on missions or sleeping, for those handful of partners like Lia and Trea that are regularly assigned to night missions. At the moment Micah doesn’t think much of this, except to be grateful for how easy it is to wave off Rei and Fiona and cut a straight-line path across the camp towards their own tent. There’s no interruption, no booming call from Warnock and no friendly shout from Talim or Patrick, and then they’re both stumbling forward over the last few steps, their movement made clumsy by both of them trying to jog the last few feet.

“Micah,” Elon says again, his voice straining on the word, and he’s turning in again, pressing distraction against the other’s throat before Micah has quite got the tent flap open.

“Yeah,” Micah says, and then, in a rush, “Inside,” taking his own advice and toppling into the cooler shadows of the interior as Elon’s lips connect with his throat just above the collar of his shirt. Elon falls with him, their arms too tangled with each other to immediately extricate, and the tent flap falls closed to drop them into the dim lighting of privacy.

“Elon,” Micah says, vowels slurring hot on his tongue, and he’s reaching out, catching his hands against Elon’s head to hold him still for a kiss. Elon leans in closer before the contact comes, his fingers winding into a fist at the hem of Micah’s shirt, and Micah knows they ought to pause to at least take their boots off but Elon’s lips are parting under his, Elon is giving a breathless sigh of relief against his tongue, and there is no part of him that can prioritize a clean tent over the friction of Elon’s mouth against his. He stays where he is instead, pushes in closer as he licks past Elon’s lips and into the heat of his mouth, and Elon falls backwards, lands sprawled half-over his blankets with Micah bearing him down with the weight of his body.

Micah draws back for a breath, aims for a grin that feels like it comes out as pure heat as he lets one of his hands slide down the front of Elon’s shirt, pressing hard against the shift of breathing coming fast in the other’s chest. “My win?”

Elon blinks, swallows. Micah makes a fist of his shirt, drags to ease it free of his pants, and Elon’s breathing stutters, his hips arching up like he’s reaching reflexively towards Micah’s touch. “You have to declare when we’re sparring.”

“That’s true,” Micah allows, ducking in close to kiss the corner of Elon’s mouth, to hold the catch of friction there as he finds the fastenings at the front of the other’s pants. “And we can both win this round.”

“Yes,” Elon says, and Micah’s fingers find their way under the loosened fabric, push against the hot flat of Elon’s stomach. Micah can hear the shocked inhale Elon takes, can hear the catch of sound coming a moment before the other’s hips come arching up to meet his touch, and then his fingers brush radiant heat and they both share an exhale, a drawn-out gust of air that would have the sound of relief if it weren’t so low as to be inaudible. Elon’s hand lands at Micah’s shoulder, his fingers catching into a bracing hold in the other’s hair, and Micah pushes his hand down farther, the thud of excitement in his veins too much to be stalled by the rush of anxiety that hits him in the first contact. Elon is hot to the touch, the shape of him flushed hard and familiar as Micah’s fingers skim over his length, and then Micah settles his hold into a grip and Elon’s hand in his hair tenses, drags hard with anticipation as he inhales so deeply he chokes on the effort.

“Mi--” he starts, voice falling into the same shuddering heat he’s offered before, but Micah moves before his name is fully formed, draws his hand up in a stroke that is probably too fast, and probably jerky with nerves, and still is enough to break Elon’s voice instantly into a groan. Micah can see Elon’s head tilt back, can watch his shoulders arch to shove hard at the blankets under them; the sound in his throat vibrates into visibility, the tension along the pale line of his neck drawing and holding Micah’s gaze as his thoughts spin frantic with heat, as his attention goes dizzy under the weight of competing stimuli. Elon’s straining under him, his hips coming up to shove at Micah’s touch, and he’s warm, he’s  _hot_ , his cock is flushed to blistering heat against the drag of Micah’s palm. His shirt is still on, his pants pulled taut against the open angle of his knees, and Micah has a moment to consider stripping him to skin before the idea of Elon thrumming with heat and laid bare under him is too much, before he has to reel back to safer focal points. Elon’s eyelashes are dark, skimming his cheekbones when he blinks; his lips are parted, his throat still dragging out those overheated sounds every time Micah moves.

Some rational part of Micah that remains puts in a voice here, points out the existence of others in the camp and Elon’s rising volume. “Quiet,” he says, intending it to come out as a plea and hearing it break into a groan as it leaves the strain of desire in his throat. “Elon, someone will hear us.”

“ _Micah_ ,” Elon offers, and it sounds like fire, Micah’s name turned into a wave of shadow to break against the edge of desperation in Elon’s throat. Electricity jolts up Micah’s spine, washes everything in him into heat and desire and in that moment he can  _feel_  his rationality caving in under the strain until he doesn’t care if Elon is quiet, doesn’t care if the entire camp hears Elon moaning his name like it’s some kind of ecstatic prayer so long as he can hear it too, so long as he can hold onto the memory of this moment, with his blood racing through his veins and Elon going harder and impossibly hotter against the drag of his hand.

“Oh my god, Elon,” Micah gasps, voice cracking, composure shattering, his movements going jerky and awkward with haste. “You’re so  _beautiful_ ” and Elon gasps, chokes on the rush of air and comes, spilling in a wave against Micah’s fingers. Micah’s the one who groans, a faint anxious sound of shock and appreciation at once; Elon falls silent, his too-loud breathing stalling into breathless shudders Micah can see trembling through his entire body, can feel pulsing hot under his fingers.

“Oh my god,” Micah says again, because he’s forgotten how to speak, because his throat is going tight on emotion so strong it’s prickling the sensation of tears against the back of his eyes. “Oh my  _god_.” Elon’s hand is still caught in his hair; Micah can feel the drag of his fingers clench for a moment, hold tense for a heartbeat before his hold loosens, the precursor to the quivering exhale of satisfied relief that he offers next. His eyes come open, his gaze refocuses on Micah, and Micah’s just starting to go red with the return of his briefly absent self-consciousness when Elon takes a sharp inhale and reaches out for the front of his pants.

“You too,” he says, voice humming through a low range Micah’s never heard from him before. His hand is shaking, still quivering with the heat Micah can see hazy in gold eyes, but it’s enough to get Micah’s clothes open while the other is still sliding his hand free and trying to figure out what he can touch with his sticky fingers.

“I need--” Micah starts, and then Elon’s fingers are on his skin, dragging the heat of sudden friction over his hip, and he’s choking on the rest of his sentence, his body tensing in a wave of dizzy heat that sends his hand out to catch his weight against the blankets under them. Elon is looking at his own hand, watching his fingers as he pushes at Micah’s clothes; his cheeks are flushed pink, his lips parted again, and Micah can’t look away from the attention in his eyes, from the absolute focus clear in every shift of lashes.

“Sorry,” Micah says, aware even as he starts to speak that the words are inane, that they are an attempt to draw his own attention away from the way Elon is pushing his pants off his hips and the dangerous dip of clothing sliding away to bare skin. “I got your blankets sticky.”

“I don’t care,” Elon says without looking up, “I’ll sleep with you,” and then his hand drags down, his fingers drawing Micah’s cock free of his clothing, and Micah is too busy shuddering at the friction to respond coherently. Elon’s touch is fire, the heat well beyond anything that can be explained by simple friction, and his movements might be unpracticed but that isn’t stripping them of any elegance that Micah can tell. Elon’s grip is steady, the faint post-orgasmic tremor in his fingers giving way to the tension of his hold, and then he strokes up and Micah can feel his skin go electric, can feel all the air in his lungs forced out of him on the heat of his reaction.

“ _Oh_ ,” he groans, the word stretching long and uncontrolled, his fingers fisting on the sticky blankets. “ _Elon_.”

“Yes,” Elon says, but he sounds distracted; he’s still looking down, still watching as his hand drags up over the flush of Micah’s cock. His mouth is open, his lips flushed dark on heat, and he’s  _staring_ , Micah can see dark eyelashes flutter as Elon watches the motion of his hold on the other’s length. It’s enough to surge self-consciousness through Micah’s blood, even if only for a moment; when he laughs it’s shaky as much on heat as embarrassment, tips towards the shape of a moan as Elon’s thumb catches against the head of his cock and pushes in against the sensitive skin.

“Jesus, Elon,” he manages. “My eyes are up here.”

“Micah,” Elon says, his tone so distracted Micah is sure the teasing has gone completely unnoticed. “You look so  _good_.”

Micah can feel that one word flood through him, converting his blood to steam as he flushes into embarrassment, as his chin tips down in involuntary response to the heat in Elon’s voice. There’s Elon under him, the rumpled mess they’ve made of his shirt pushed up just free of his waistband and his pants not yet done back up, and then there’s movement, the slide of Elon’s hand over flushed skin, and for a moment Micah’s staring too, watching the way Elon’s fingers fit around him and the slick slide of the other’s touch dragging over the dark of his cock. It’s too much, for a moment, while Micah stares and can’t breathe and can’t think; then Elon slides his thumb sideways again, drags pressure against the slick collecting at the sensitive head, and Micah can feel the movement spark into promise in his veins, the heat dragging his eyes shut even as his hips buck forward of their own accord to thrust into the contact.

“Oh god,” he says, clear and shocked into a louder volume than he intended. When he opens his eyes he’s staring at Elon’s face again, at the overheated attention in gold eyes and the drag of teeth against a lip, a involuntary tell for concentration. “Elon” and he’s falling, his gravity is tilting sideways and away, and Elon looks up to meet his gaze and Micah comes, groans some outline of Elon’s name into the sparking white that overtakes his vision, his concentration, his existence for a moment. Everything is heat, everything is motion, Elon’s gasping a startled breath under him and still stroking over him and Micah can’t breathe and isn’t sure he needs to, not when every shudder of pleasure is whiting out his awareness into bone-deep satisfaction.

It’s some time later that Micah thinks to inhale again. Elon is still holding onto him, a hand still fisted in his hair and his grip gone gentle and lingering; Micah can feel the ache in his supporting arm, the tension in the elbow long since locked out to brace himself upright through the rush of fire in his veins.

“Micah?” Elon asks, sounding breathless enough that Micah can hear the strain of concern under his voice.

Micah blinks hard. His vision clears, his awareness of his body coming back to him; Elon is staring at him, eyes wide and blown dark with appreciation and satisfaction at once. His lip is free from his teeth; Micah’s gaze drops to the damp flush of it, lingers there while he takes a breath and tests his throat on the shape of an inhale. He’s still exhaling, still waiting for his heartbeat to slow, when Elon’s mouth catches taut at the corner, the suggestion of a smirk forming itself in the moment before he says “My eyes are up here” in a tone so deadpan it’s only the quirk of his lips that indicates otherwise.

It’s harder to kiss around the smile that breaks over Elon’s face at Micah’s sudden laugh, but they manage anyway.


	24. Unusual

Warnock asks to talk to Micah that night.

It’s strange to get the summons for just himself, to go without the company of Elon at his shoulder that has become more than familiar, has become welcome, has become  _expected_. The loss of that alone is enough to put Micah off-balance, to feed stress into his shoulders and speed his heartrate past the bounds of calm; it’s odd to walk down the pathways of the camp unmatched, odd to know Elon is back in their tent and not within reaching distance, odd to be called by Warnock at all. Micah isn’t sure Warnock knows about the recent shift in he and Elon’s relationship, and he can’t come up with a good reason why it would merit comment if he does, but the possibility is agonizing, the threat of separation enough that he is trembling with it by the time he draws within earshot of the captain’s tent, the canvas shape larger even than those shared by the pairs in the rest of the tents. Micah takes a moment to compose himself -- straightens his shoulders, steadies his hands -- and is just opening his mouth to offer a formal greeting outside the tent flaps when Warnock says, “Stop panicking and come inside” in lieu of a more polite invitation.

The inside of the tent is far different than the one Micah shares with Elon. It’s not just bigger; there’s furniture, too, a desk and a chair taking up one corner with a bedroll laid out along the edge of the tent as far out of the way as possible. There’s also far less available space, for all that the the tent itself is larger; Warnock has papers spread everywhere, unstable piles at the corner of the desk and toppling under clothes clearly tossed aside in the exhaustion that comes just before bed. Micah hesitates in the doorway, eyeing the clutter on the floor and trying to decide if it’s worth coming inside, if there’s even space for him to stand if he does.

“Come in,” Warnock says without looking up from the papers in front of him. “Dirt won’t make things any worse than they already are. Nothing on the floor is that important anyway.” Micah maneuvers inside as told, picking his way carefully to leave everything as untouched as possible, and Warnock sighs something between resignation and frustration and shoves the papers in front of him aside to be lost in another heap at the edge of his desk before looking up to fix his full attention on Micah.

“You and your partner have been doing well on missions lately,” he says, with no kind of preamble for the sudden focus of his attention.

Micah blinks. “Yes,” he says, caught too off-balance by this lack of introduction to be coy about the implied compliment.

Warnock rocks back in his chair, lifts one hand to rest at his chin. “Tell me.”

“Tell you?” Micah repeats, struggling for meaning in the too-short phrase. “About the missions?” Warnock’s nod gives him permission to continue, the wave of his hand actively encouraging speech. “Do you want to hear about the mission assignments, or--”

“I want to hear about your partner,” Warnock says over Micah’s attempt at clarification. “Your interactions with him. You’re getting along?”

“With Elon?” Micah says, the question pulling itself from him on the force of incredulity. “Absolutely, we get along great.” Warnock is still staring at him with consideration in his eyes but no judgment. “It was a little bit tricky at the beginning, before we really knew each other; I mean, he’s a Wing, not a human, that’s normal, right? But we.” Micah’s mind offers an image of Elon under him, his head tipped back on a moan and his back arching up in response to the drag of Micah’s hand across his skin, and he barely manages to close his mouth on the panicked laugh that threatens as his cheeks go hot with self-consciousness. He coughs hard. “We understand each other now.”

“Mm.” Warnock folds his arms over his chest. “You’re doing better on missions.”

“Yes,” Micah admits, because it’s true and because this is a far safer thread of conversation than general considerations of Elon as an individual. “It’s easier to understand Elon when he transforms back. I used to have to wait until he could find the words he needed but now it’s.” He pauses, considering the words to frame the experience. “It’s like I know before he’s said anything, like I’m just reading it right out of his head.” It sounds more absurd said aloud than it feels; Micah lets his laugh catch in his throat, reaches up to slide his hand over the weight of the braids holding his hair back. “That sounds silly, sorry.”

“No,” Warnock says, drops the answer at that without any further detail.

Micah waits for a moment, hesitating over the possibility of more before he says, “Is there a problem with our performance, sir?”

Warnock shakes his head, a sharp movement that unknots the rising tension in Micah’s chest, though it does nothing for the stress in his shoulders, and leans forward over his desk again.

“Remember what you’re here for,” he says, the words so efficient as to be entirely cryptic.

Micah blinks, tries to fight back the crease of confusion in his forehead and feels himself failing. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Your partner’s job is the sky,” Warnock says, the words so familiar from the weeks of initial training that the cadence falls into a rhythm, a mantra Micah could recite back in his sleep. “Yours is the ground.”

Micah nods, ready to agree without protest even though he doesn’t see the relevance. “Right.” He tries a self-deprecating smile. “I don’t want the sky anyway, heights kinda freak me out.”

Warnock doesn’t laugh. “You’re responsible for keeping both of you where you should be,” he declares, slow on each word as if they’re loaded with meaning Micah doesn’t understand. “Remember that.”

“Yes,” Micah says, careful with his agreement. “I’ll remember.” He pauses, hesitating for some kind of additional clarification, but Warnock just watches him, his eyes dark and focused and confusingly absent of any kind of judgment, of anything except for that intent consideration. “Was there anything else, sir?”

“No.” Warnock looks away, apparently satisfied enough with whatever he sees in Micah’s face to let the conversation end. When he reaches out he retrieves a different paper than the one he started with, frowns at the page like he doesn’t recognize it. “You can go.”

“Sir,” Micah says once more, and turns to duck out of the lamplit tent and back into the growing shadows of sunset through the trees.

The open sky overhead is a relief.


	25. Flush

“What did the captain want to talk to you about?” Elon finally asks, several minutes after Micah’s return to the tent. Full dark has fallen outside, the shadows enough to provide the illusion of privacy if not the actual fact, until Micah doesn’t think to even attempt to hush the high, breathless catch of Elon’s breathing as he presses his mouth to the other’s throat.

“I dunno,” he says without pulling away, letting the words slide under Elon’s shirt collar while his fingers wind up under the the thin of his undershirt to press flush to warm skin. Elon huffs almost a laugh, leaning back under the light pressure; Micah follows him, lands sprawled atop the warmth of the other’s body while his hand pushes higher to draw a shudder of reaction from Elon’s throat. “He was just being cryptic and weird.”

“Ah,” Elon says. He’s not even bothering with Micah’s shirt; he has one hand in his favorite place at Micah’s neck, his fingers tangling into the weight of the braids he has formed of the other’s hair, and the other is pushing at the front of Micah’s pants, working the fastenings loose with a hasty desperation that is as effective as it is clumsy. “That’s fine.”

Micah laughs, presses his nose in against the dip of Elon’s throat and breathes against the warm sweet of his skin. “You don’t care what he said?”

“If you’re not worried I’m not worried,” Elon says, sounding only a little bit distracted. Micah’s pants come open under his fingers and then there’s friction skin-to-skin, Elon’s hand dipping down under the fabric to catch at the angle of Micah’s hip. Micah groans a faint note of incoherent pleading, rocks his weight forward against Elon’s leg and towards Elon’s fingers.

“You have better things to think about?” Micah suggests, dragging his fingers back down across the flutter of breathing in Elon’s chest and over the trembling flat of his stomach. When he lifts his head Elon is looking down, his focus drawing in on the slide of his fingers, and Micah grins in embarrassed appreciation as Elon’s touch finds his cock and catches friction against him.

“Yes,” Elon says, bringing his gaze back up to meet Micah’s. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown so wide there’s just a halo of bright gold around the black. “Don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Micah agrees, and he ducks in to catch Elon’s mouth with his, to press a quick kiss against the other’s lips before he draws back to gasp heat over Elon’s skin and push at the other’s pants without looking. “I guess I do.”

“I’m glad you agree” Elon says with every indication of sincerity, and he’s closing his hand into a steady grip, stroking over Micah’s cock with a smooth drag of motion that jerks the other’s attention sideways and away from what he’s doing. His fingers seize into a fist at the edge of Elon’s pants, his movement stalling into a gasping exhale instead, and Elon laughs a spill of delight and strokes over him again.

“God,” Micah manages, breaking the word open along its midline into something long and hot on his tongue. “That’s. That’s  _really_  distracting, Elon.”

“Good,” Elon says, and he’s turning, tipping them both sideways until Micah’s fallen over the blankets, until Elon is as much over Micah as Micah is over him. Their legs are a tangle, their arms worse, and Micah doesn’t care; when he pulls Elon comes in closer, right where he wants him so he can crush another lingering kiss to the other’s mouth.

“At least let me get your pants open,” Micah protests, the complaint going weak against the tremor of heat in his throat. He drags at Elon’s pants, his movements fumbling and ineffective and made more so by the way Elon’s breath catches and his hips rock forward against Micah’s touch. “I can’t think straight when you--” Elon tightens his hold, drags another rush of sensation up Micah’s spine, and Micah’s vision goes white on heat for a moment, his throat closing up around the involuntary groan that his chest offers. “ _Ah_. Do that.”

“I don’t mind,” Elon says, and Micah can hear the gasp under the words, the same heat that is rocking Elon’s hips forward against Micah’s touch clinging to his usually-steady voice to turn it into something hot and anxious with desire. “This is fine.”

“This is  _not_  fine,” Micah says, struggling himself into sincerity, and Elon’s pants finally give way to a two-handed effort, the cloth opening to his touch all at once. He grabs at Elon’s hip with one hand, his fingers pinning loose fabric to hot skin, and then his palm is against Elon’s stomach and pushing down and Elon’s hold on him stalls still in the first shudder of reaction to Micah’s touch.

“ _This_ is fine,” Micah declares, and he arches in closer, angling a knee between Elon’s so he can press their hips flush together, until their thumbs are catching against each other and any movement is prevented by their own proximity. “And this is better.”

“What?” Elon says, sounding a little lost and a lot breathless, still rocking his hips forward in tiny anxious motions like he can’t keep himself from reaching for more sensation. “I can’t--” and Micah gets his thumb out and around himself, pulls them in closer together, and Elon’s words die off to an “ _Oh_ ” of electric understanding.

“This is better,” Micah says, struggling through the words as he tries to get an angle for movement, tries to settle his hand into a grip around them both at once. “This way we can both--” and Elon’s grip slides, shifts, and suddenly there’s a drag of friction over the flush of his cock and Micah groans himself out of coherency.

“This is better,” Elon echoes for him, offering the words in a rush against Micah’s skin. He’s too close for Micah to see him clearly; his vision comes only in pieces, in the damp of Elon’s mouth and the flush on his freckled cheeks and the dark-damp of his hair at his forehead. And he’s moving, his hand stroking up over flushed skin and pulling them close together until when Micah rocks up he can feel himself dragging against the heat of Elon’s cock as much as against the friction of the other’s fingers.

“Oh my god,” Micah says, and lets his hold go completely so he can grab at Elon’s shoulder instead, can pin the other to stillness by his matching hold on hip and shoulder and rock hard against the drag of Elon’s hand over them. Micah can feel the heat of the motion purr up his spine, can feel it unwind electric in his thoughts, and when he breathes it’s Elon he can taste on his lips, the gasp of the other’s breathing falling out-of-rhythm with his as his chest tightens on the heat uncoiling into his veins. Elon’s fingers are gentle in his hair, stroking through the strands as carefully as his hold is stroking up over them both, and Micah’s staring at Elon’s mouth, now, too close to the other and too close to satisfaction to do anything but center in on the nearest point of interest.

“Elon,” he says, because he can feel the warmth turning to fire in him, can feel heat threatening too-quick satisfaction under the drag of Elon’s hand over his length and the flushed resistance of Elon’s cock against his. “Elon, are you…?”

“Later,” Elon says, so fast Micah has trouble parsing the reply, or maybe it’s just speech in general that is tangling unintelligible in his thoughts. “But you’re--”

“Yeah,” Micah blurts, agreement too-fast for composure, but his hands are pressing tighter too, the desperation under his fingertips giving him away as much as the anxious tension building in the rocking shift of his hips. “Don’t--” Elon’s fingers catch, drag a sudden jolt of sensation over the head of Micah’s cock, and his gasp of “ _stop_ ” comes out like a moan instead of the plea he intended. Elon’s too close, pressed flush against Micah at shoulders and knees and hips, but Micah’s still pulling, urging Elon in closer as if there’s anywhere for him to go. Elon’s breathing hard, heat spilling from his lungs and into Micah’s with every exhale, and then he pushes in nearer, catches Micah’s mouth with his, and when he strokes up again Micah can feel all his composure fracture into the inevitability of satisfaction. Micah’s mouth comes open, the action as involuntary as the jerky rock of his hips against the heat of Elon’s skin, and Elon makes a faint pleased noise over his tongue as Micah shudders into relief, the electricity of pleasure jolting through his body as he comes over Elon’s stroking hand. Elon gasps against his mouth, his cock still flushed hard against Micah’s, and Micah moves as soon as he can, as soon as the aftershocks of heat have faded from his vision enough that he can make himself ease his hold on Elon’s shoulder.

“Your turn,” he says, his voice low and so ragged he barely recognizes himself, and reaches to catch and still Elon’s hand around them. Elon stops moving, obedient to the unstated request, and Micah moves as soon as Elon’s hand draws away, sliding down the blankets under them while his heart is still pounding hard with the pleasure washing his movements languid and warm. Elon’s hot to the touch, all his skin so radiant Micah can feel it through even the rumpled cover of his clothes, and he’s just shifting to reach for a discarded shirt to wipe his sticky fingers when Micah comes on level with his hips and leans in close to take the salt-heat of Elon’s cock past his lips. Elon jerks, arching through a tremor of reaction, and Micah has to grab at his hips, has to brace him still so he can slide down at the slow pace he needs to keep his breath. Elon is hot on his tongue, slick and heavy with warmth; there’s a bite of salt there, too, a faint bitter taste that Micah collects at the back of his tongue before he identifies it as the spill of his own come against Elon’s skin.

The idea shudders down his spine like a much-delayed aftershock, his body trembling nearly as badly as Elon’s, and when the shiver turns into a purr on his tongue it’s Elon who gives it voice, moaning heat into the air with so much strain Micah doesn’t have to see to know the other’s head is tipping back on the involuntary angle of adrenaline. His movements feel uncoordinated, the press of his lips and the slide of his tongue coming out-of-rhythm with each other, but either it’s good enough or Elon is close enough that he doesn’t care, because he’s curving in closer, his back arching impossibly far to thrust against Micah’s lips as careful fingers work themselves to desperation in dark braids. Micah can see the flush of heat under Elon’s skin, a sheen of sweat clinging to the tense line of his stomach, and when he tightens his lips and sucks hard he can feel Elon’s cock twitch at his tongue as clearly as he can hear the choking, startled inhale Elon takes over him. Micah wants to hum encouragement, wants to offer affection in the form of words pressed to Elon’s skin or fingers pushing through his hair, but he can’t reach, and he can’t speak, so what he does instead is tighten his fingers at Elon’s hips, slide his thumbs up over sharp hipbones in the best shorthand he can think of in the moment. It’s enough, judging from the way Elon shudders reaction and the way Elon’s fingers drag through his hair, and then Micah slicks his tongue up over Elon’s length and Elon gasps, straining on the sound as his hips jolt forward and he pulses hot over Micah’s tongue. Micah’s mouth fills with salt-sticky liquid, the bitter tang catching at the back of his throat, but he doesn’t pull away, keeps holding to Elon’s hips and keeps his lips sealed tight against Elon’s length until the hold in his hair eases, until the shuddering waves of heat over his tongue have subsided to the weight of fingers gone slack in his hair. Then he pulls away, swallows in a rush, and Elon is sliding down without waiting for him to come back up, fitting in against Micah’s chest and reaching for a kiss before Micah’s cleared the bitter salt from his tongue.

“Sorry,” Micah offers after Elon’s pulled back, only sounding a little bit breathless underneath the apology. “I must taste kind of weird.”

“You taste like me,” Elon says, simple truth made into pure heat by the meaning under the words. Micah flushes, self-consciousness and the afterimage of arousal hitting his veins at once, and Elon’s mouth quirks, forms a smile around the melting-soft heat clinging to his lips and the dark of his eyes. “I don’t mind.”

“Well then,” Micah says, and leans back in to let Elon kiss him into something that’s not embarrassment at all.


	26. Partners

They are met with fanfare at breakfast the next morning.

It’s minimal, as far as fanfare goes, and in fact can probably be better summed up as Talim whistling a series of notes more notable for their volume than for their tune. But the effect is still dramatic enough that Elon misses a step in the first shock; Micah reaches out to catch his arm and steady his balance before he gives Talim a quirked eyebrow and the question of a smirk.

“Wow,” Patrick says from Talim’s far side, staring at his partner instead of at his breakfast. “That was even worse than you promised.”

“Impressive,” Lia comments from the end of her and Trea’s preferred seat, the one with an awkward divot in the middle that allows them a little more elbow room than other spots.

“Spoilsports,” Talim declares, tossing his head with an air of complete superiority. “I’m just trying to welcome the heroes of the hour to our humble mealtime.” He’s grinning when he looks back up at Micah. “You’re like celebrities!”

“Celebrities?” Micah repeats, skepticism hanging heavy on the word as he steers Elon towards an empty space big enough for the both of them. “How are you defining that?”

Talim waves a hand, pushing aside Micah’s question like smoke in the air. “Whatever,” he says. “Maybe not celebrities. But you’re a big deal! The whole camp is talking about your mission yesterday.”

“They say you two were nearly telepathic,” Lia comments without looking up from her breakfast. “That you almost didn’t have to speak at all.”

“Did you?” Talim asks with interest, goes on talking before Micah has a chance to respond. “They say that partners can get that way after years of working together but this is totally new. Even the wonder girls--” the tilt of his head in the direction of Trea and Lia leaves no doubt as to whom he’s referring, “--aren’t as big a deal as you two are.”

“Don’t call us that,” Trea says with a low rumble of irritation under the words.

Talim doesn’t even glance at her. “Seriously, what did you  _do_?” he asks, leaning in so close he appears in some danger of falling entirely off his seat. “They say you saved an entire corps with how fast you were. You two even impressed the veterans.”

Micah laughs, the leading edge of nervousness at the intensity of Talim’s attention seeping into a strain in his voice. “Nothing,” he says, and then, as Talim starts to voice protest, “Really!”

“It was just another mission,” Elon offers from Micah’s side. He’s tipped in close, his hip bumping Micah’s and his arm catching the other’s sleeve when he moves. He feels very warm.

“Elon was great,” Micah volunteers, the compliment made easy by the friction of Elon leaning against him. He glances sideways, catches the bright of Elon’s eyes; when he grins Elon’s mouth quirks too, a smile threatening under the soft of his lips. “He’s been getting faster with every mission.”

“Micah too,” Elon says, and he’s not looking away, he’s offering the words straight to Micah as if the others don’t exist at all. “I didn’t even have to say anything and he knew what I meant.”

“Jesus,” Talim says, and Micah and Elon both look away and back at him at the same time. “You  _do_ look like you’re having a conversation no one else can hear. You’re even moving the same way.”

“I don’t want to move like you,” Patrick volunteers from Talim’s other side. He ducks when Talim reaches out to ruffle his hair into disarray, speaks from the crouch he’s adopted to dodge the contact. “I told you it wasn’t something we could do.”

“How long did you have to practice to pull that off?” Talim asks, giving up on Patrick’s hair to shove at his shoulder instead. “That’s crazy, it must have taken weeks.”

“We didn’t practice,” Micah says. When he shifts his hand his fingers fit between his leg and Elon’s, his knuckles bumping against Elon’s pants; Elon leans into the contact, reaches up towards Micah’s shoulder. Micah can feel the ghosting weight of fingers skimming over the braids weighting his hair against the back of his neck. “It just happened.”

“Lucky,” Talim sighs. “You were just destined for greatness, I guess.” He looks over at Patrick, growling mock irritation. “How come you couldn’t be the perfect Wing too?”

“How come I had to get stuck with you as a partner?” Patrick snaps back, swinging an elbow wide to dig into Talim’s ribcage. Talim’s breath gusts into a huff at the impact and Patrick’s mouth tugs into a smirk. “Maybe with Micah  _I_  would have been the impressive one.”

“No,” Lia says, her voice so unexpected they all fall silent and shocked to stare at her. She’s watching Elon, her gaze lingering on the movement of his fingers as he keeps watching Micah; Micah can see her eyes go soft, the corner of her mouth tense into amusement as she watches, and when his skin goes hot it’s with a flush as much self-consciousness as pleasure at the continued pull of Elon’s fingers in his hair. “I don’t think it would work if they were partners with anyone else.”

“Well  _obviously_ ,” Patrick puts in. “We were all assigned to be partners for a reason, right?”

“Aww,” Talim coos in a deliberately saccharine tone. “I love you too, buddy.”

“Except us,” Patrick says without looking at him. “We were  _definitely_  a mistake.” Talim protests while Lia coughs through a laugh; for his part Micah grins, as relieved by the shift in attention as he is amused by Patrick’s teasing. Elon smiles in his periphery, his fingers winding into the ends of Micah’s braid, and takes advantage of the moment of distraction to press his head against Micah’s shoulder and hum a faint note of pleased affection over his skin.

Micah’s never been more grateful to that initial assignment.


	27. Together

“So,” Micah says once they’re back in the tent, with him sprawled over the blankets while Elon is still working his boots off in the doorway. “How does it feel to be a hero?” He can feel himself smiling, can feel the pressure of laughter like a bubble in his chest; it’s impossible to restrain when he’s so radiant with pride and happiness and affection all together.

Elon’s smile is wide enough that Micah can see it even when he ducks his head in a futile attempt to hide in the spill of shadow his hair grants him. “I haven’t decided,” he says, even though his smile says otherwise, even though his eyes are glowing bright as he tugs his boot free and sets it outside. “It seems unreal right now.”

“Yeah?” Micah says, more a hum of attention than a real question. Elon’s tipped forward and straightening his boots; it’s easy for Micah to reach out, to offer the weight of his fingers to the hem of Elon’s shirt and tug to urge him backwards into the tent. “Don’t you feel like a hero?”

“No,” Elon says, unfolding and leaning back so the tent flap falls closed behind him. He’s twisting as quickly as he’s leaning, turning in to offer Micah his smile and the dark of his lashes as he ducks in towards the other’s mouth. “Do you?”

“You’re the real hero,” Micah insists, pushing aside the question as unnecessary as he finds out holds for his fingers in Elon’s hair, curls a hand against the back of the other’s neck and draws him in close. The kiss is brief, a moment of contact more a suggestion than a conclusion in itself, but Elon sighs into it anyway, is smiling the softer when Micah draws back. “You’re the one who did all the work.”

“That’s not true,” Elon says without opening his eyes. His hand comes up to drag over one of the braids in Micah’s hair; when he moves it’s to lean in closer, spine arching to tilt him in the nearer to the other. “You were amazing.”

“Not as much as you,” Micah says. “But go on telling me how fantastic I am, please.”

Elon laughs, his smile falling easy and warm against Micah’s mouth. “You are,” he says, and there’s nothing but sincerity in his tone. “It’s so easy with you, I almost don’t have to talk at all.”

“Mm,” Micah hums. When he shifts his hand in dark hair Elon makes a tiny noise, a faint whimper more like heat made audible than a deliberate sound. Micah’s blood goes hot with it, his shoulders tensing on the desire to pull Elon in closer, to tip him over onto the blankets and pin him down into a surge of rhythmic friction and the liquid sounds Elon makes when Micah touches him. He resists, for now, contents himself instead with dropping a hand from Elon’s hair down the front of his shirt, catching at the bottom hem and pushing it up to seek out the warm-flushed skin underneath.

“I think that’s you,” he says, voice shaking only a little bit as his hand comes up, as Elon trembles with heat under his fingertips. “Pretty sure you’re just telling me everything I need to know as soon as you transform.”

“It’s easier,” Elon admits, and he’s tipping backwards of his own accord, rolling onto his back and drawing Micah with him by the featherlight touch he has drifting over the other’s hair. “It’s easier to find the words, with you.”

“Is it?” Micah breathes. He’s losing track of the conversation; it’s hard to keep his mind on what they’re saying when he can feel each inhale Elon takes fluttering under his fingertips, when each exhale is gusting warm against his lips. He takes a moment for another kiss, longer this time, catches the whine in Elon’s throat on his mouth before he pulls back to gasp an inhale and watch the shift of Elon’s expression as his fingers venture higher. “I still think it’s you.” His touch drags over fragile bone, sketches the shape of Elon’s ribcage under the taut line of his skin, and Elon sucks in a breath, arching up off the blankets with an angle that goes through Micah like fire itself.

“I think--” Elon starts, but Micah doesn’t wait to hear what he thinks; he’s leaning in closer instead, crushing his lips to Elon’s to stifle whatever coherency was there into heat. Elon groans, the sound so far back in his throat it purrs between their lips, and his hand catches Micah’s neck, pulls to hold the other in close against him as Micah shifts down to pin Elon to the blankets. His hand is caught between them, his hips are pressing at the edge of Elon’s, and for a moment they’re just rocking together, Micah moving down as Elon arches up to press them closer. Both are breathing harder, hands and legs falling into a tangle of friction, and then Elon shifts and gets his leg free of the weight of Micah’s, and suddenly Micah is between Elon’s knees and everything is suddenly, startlingly, too much to bear.

“Oh,” Elon gasps, and “ _God_ ,” Micah blurts, and when he rocks his weight forward it’s in a long drag of friction, his whole body forming the shape of a wave cresting over Elon under him. Elon’s head goes back, his throat shapes out a whimper, and Micah moves again, rocking in with deliberate force. Elon’s hard against the front of his pants, Micah’s pressing them together with every pull of his hips, but it doesn’t feel like enough, not with Elon’s legs hooking around his and Elon arching up to meet the movement of Micah’s body.

“I want--” Micah starts.

“More,” Elon finishes. He’s flushed, the pale skin under his freckles going to scarlet just on the heat of his blood, but when he reaches out his hands are steady, his fingers fitting against the front edge of Micah’s pants with unerring precision. “Take them off.”

“Yeah,” Micah says, feeling heat sweep up his spine and ground out at the back of his skull, washing away any coherency he might have mustered in a wave of electricity. He reaches for his pants, catches his fingers with the movement of Elon’s already undoing the fastenings before he pulls back to hook his thumb under the waistband instead so he can push the fabric down off his hips.

“Elon,” he says as his pants come off, as Elon’s fingers form handles of his body, print heat into the space just over his hipbones and urge him back in closer. “Do you want to…?” Elon’s hands are hot, the friction of his touch on Micah’s skin suggesting pleasure made familiar with repetition. It would be easy to unfasten the tangle of laces at the front of Elon’s pants, to drag the fabric down enough to grind in against him and have them both come shuddering against each other before they draw apart for sleep. But Elon’s eyes are bronze, going darker as Micah watches, and in the end Micah braces a hand on Elon’s knee and grinds in close, letting his cock slide suggestion into the hot space between Elon’s thighs.

He can see the answer in Elon’s face. It’s as easy to read as the information they convey during missions, easier; it’s in the soft part of his lips, it’s in the way his eyes blow into shadow as his chin tips up into a breathless arc of heat. Micah can feel how hard Elon goes against him, can feel the way his cock presses taut to the front of his pants, and by the time Elon has found the words to say “ _Yes_ ” Micah is already letting his knee go and is halfway through unfastening the other’s pants.

“It’s going to take a few minutes,” he says, stumbling over words gone slick with sudden haste. “I’m going to need to open you up to keep from hurting you.”

“Fingers?” Elon asks, his voice lower than Micah’s ever heard it, and Micah can feel heat shiver down his spine even before Elon exhales on a shudder that says agreement better than words could.

“Yeah,” Micah says, and Elon’s hands are steady but his are shaking, it’s hard even to maneuver the other’s clothing down and off his legs. There’s an expanse of pale skin catching the lamplight into a glow everywhere it touches, and Elon’s angling his legs wide into an invitation that Micah can’t take the time to appreciate for fear of losing what little patience he has left.

“You’re going to need to relax,” he says, because he knows the outline of this but not the practice, and leans sideways towards his bag at the side of the tent to dig through the personal items he rarely touches. There’s a bottle in one of the outside pouches; he tugs it free, trying desperately to think about what he’s doing and not the distracting heat of what he’s about to do as he keeps talking. “And tell me if I hurt you, okay?” He has the bottle in hand, he’s rocking back up onto his knees, and Elon’s still watching him, still with those huge eyes gone so dark Micah can’t see any but the faintest suggestion of gold in them.

“I trust you,” Elon says. His voice is steady too, calm as his touch, but his eyes are going wider as he watches Micah slick his fingers, his teeth are catching at the edge of his lip to pin pressure against it. “You won’t hurt me.”

Micah has to laugh at that, his nerves running up against uncertainty and coming out in the form of near-hysteria. “I don’t want to,” he agrees, setting the bottle aside so he can reach out and fit his free hand at Elon’s knee to use the tension in the other’s body as a gauge. “I might mess up, though.”

Elon’s smile is breathtaking, too soft and too warm for the small space of the tent. Micah feels like he can’t breathe, like the affection in the other’s eyes is taking up all the air around him.

“Not more than once,” he says, as certain as if it’s the way of the world, and Micah tries to laugh without any air in his lungs, feels the sound turn itself inside-out into a smile at his lips instead. His heart is going too fast, his skin tingling over-sensitive and ticklish under the weight of his shirt, but when he slides his hand up the warm of Elon’s skin he can feel himself settle into place, can manage to take a lungful of air and hold himself still for a moment.

“Okay,” he says, and shifts his knees, braces himself in place. “You ready?”

“Micah,” Elon says, and his hands are lifting, he’s reaching for Micah’s hair until Micah has no choice but to tip himself in, to give up steadiness for the friction of Elon’s fingers in his hair and Elon’s mouth inches closer to his own.

“I’m going,” he says, the start of an unfinished sentence, and touches slick fingers against Elon’s warm-flushed skin. Elon shudders immediately, quaking breathless like Micah’s touch is shocking him, like Micah’s never touched him before, and Micah’s movement stalls still as all the air tries to leave his lungs at once and turns itself into a groan instead. His fingers slide, drag against Elon’s leg, and Elon is staring at him, his eyes wide and unblinking and lashes ink-dark against his skin.

“Elon,” Micah says again, turning the familiarity of the sound over on his tongue, and shifts his position, braces his arm harder against the blankets under Elon’s shoulders. Elon’s hands are working into his hair, fingers tangling themselves into the patterns of half-loosened braids, and in the drag of Elon’s touch Micah finds the focus to move again, to draw his hand sideways and up and over the tremble of motion under Elon’s skin. He’s warm to the touch, his skin textured hot like Micah’s not let himself notice before, and he just gets warmer as Micah’s touch goes higher, as he finds his way blind to skim his touch over Elon’s entrance, to feel the way Elon shivers and gasps at the friction of his touch.

“Are you--” Micah asks, again, not because he needs to but because he wants to hear Elon’s voice on the words, and “I’m okay,” Elon says, fast, anticipating the question even as he takes a breath and visibly lets himself relax out over the blankets. He blinks, casting his eyes and cheekbones into shadow for a moment, and when he opens them again it’s only halfway, only to offer a heavy-lidded gaze that turns Micah’s blood hot and so heavy he can feel every beat of his heart.

“Okay,” Micah echoes, and he moves, slow and careful, turning his hand to ease his touch just inside Elon. There’s too much to pay attention to -- the way Elon tenses around him, the shudder of dark lashes and the part of damp lips, how soft-hot Elon is to the touch -- and Micah only gets it in pieces, in images and bursts of sensation that shatter any kind of coherency to his memory. He’s breathing hard, long, focused inhales as his vision spirals out into distraction, as his finger slides deeper, and Elon is shaking under him like he can’t hold himself together, like Micah’s touch is threatening to force him into the shadows and shape of his other form.

“Stay here,” Micah says, the sudden fear of a transformation sinking claws into his imagination and spiraling the words off his tongue in a rush of anxiety. “Elon, hey, are you with me?”

“Yes,” Elon offers immediately, and he sounds a little bit strained but he sounds coherent, still, sounds like he’s present as he doesn’t when he’s still halfway in the sky. “Micah, yes, I’m here.”

“Oh good.” Micah takes a breath, feels the strain of panic ease out of his shoulders as he lets himself pause in the slow slide of his movement. Elon is hot to the touch, hotter and softer than Micah had expected or thought to imagine, and he’s clenching against Micah’s touch at odd intervals, reflexive strain exerting itself over his active effort to keep it at bay. It’s strange, to feel him so near, stranger still to think of pushing in deeper, of stretching him open wider, and then Micah has the too-brief thought of fitting his cock against Elon’s slick entrance and his blood goes so hot so fast he feels briefly lightheaded.

“Okay,” he says again, blinking hard to clear his vision back into focus on Elon’s face, on Elon’s hair, on the dark shadows in his glazed-over eyes. “Okay, me too.” He draws back -- slow, carefully, only by an inch -- and thrusts in again, deeper this time and in one stroke that comes a little closer to the rhythm he wants to set. Elon arches, hisses on an inhale, and Micah starts to flinch back before Elon manages “Don’t stop” with so much intensity Micah can’t tell if it’s pleasure or determination under the command. He obeys it anyway, too flushed and too hot with adrenaline to think to do anything else, and when he takes another thrust he can see the way Elon’s throat works on an inhale, the way his eyelashes flutter to translate the tension straining in his shoulders into an arc of pleasure and not of pain.  
“Is this okay?” Micah asks, leaning in closer without thinking as he draws his hand back again, as he finds a rhythm to his motions the easier for his lack of deliberate attention to it. Elon is breathing hard, his inhales stalling occasionally like he’s forgotten how oxygen works, but he’s still got his hands in Micah’s hair, is still hard against his stomach; when Micah risks a glance down to see the shift of his hand as he moves into Elon he can see the slick of precome catching the head of the other’s cock to the soft of his undershirt.

“Yes,” Elon says with his eyes still shut, with his breathing coming harder with every inhale. “Micah, don’t stop.”

“I don’t want to stop,” Micah admits, a little desperate and a lot hot. He slides his touch back, tries a second finger; the stretch tenses in Elon’s forehead, pushes a groan out of his throat, but he doesn’t tell Micah to stop, and after a moment Micah starts to ease both fingers in deeper. “You feel amazing,” he says, because it’s true, because he can feel all Elon’s reactions from the inside out and the idea itself is going through him like fire with every beat of his heart. “You  _are_  amazing, you know.” His fingers bottom out, his touch gone as far as he can reach, and Micah coughs into a laugh, a shocked sound of delight in his throat. “You’re the best partner anyone could ever have.”

“Micah,” Elon says again, coherency undone by the movement of Micah’s touch, and Micah moves again, breathless with appreciation for the way his motion makes Elon’s lashes shudder, for the way he can hear the other’s breathing catching hot in his chest. Elon is clinging to his hair, grabbing tighter at Micah’s shoulder with every stroke he takes with his arm, and Micah’s moving faster without meaning to, the rush of Elon’s breathing making him greedy for more. Elon’s arching to meet him, his spine curving into a clean arc like he’s straining towards the sky, and Micah can’t breathe for the heat in his chest.

Finally “Micah,” Elon says, intention forming into the words he had lost his grip on, and the drag of his fingers in Micah’s hair goes tense with deliberation. “I want.” There’s a  _you_  left unstated, the suggestion of an action after the phrase, but Micah doesn’t need to hear the words to catch their meaning.

“Okay,” he says, and makes himself rock back, extricates his hair from Elon’s hold as he eases his fingers free as slowly as he can. Elon makes a faint shattered noise as Micah pulls free, the tone aching into sound from somewhere deep in his chest like he’s losing something precious, and Micah’s thoughts go hazy and distracted for a brief, breathless moment.

“I should,” he starts, pauses, has to reach for words again while he works through the stutter of Elon’s lips on the pace of his breathing, the catch of his shirt still clinging to his shoulders. “You should take your shirt off.”

Elon blinks, a little of the color coming back to his eyes as the blown-wide dark recedes into confusion, makes way for clarity. “What?” He looks down, touches his fingers to the fabric; it’s not until Micah is inverting his own shirt over his head that he hears Elon’s “ _Oh_ ” of sudden understanding and the rustle of the blankets as he moves to sit up.

“Here,” Micah says as he emerges, casting his own shirt aside and freeing his hands to reach for Elon’s. His fingers catch alongside the other’s hands, their fingertips skimming each other as they move, and Elon is smiling as they tug the shirt up over his head, his hair catching to curl into disarray over his forehead.

“Is it better?” he asks, leaning in towards Micah’s mouth without bothering to finish out the motion of twisting his hands free of his shirt.

“Much,” Micah tells him, and follows Elon’s lead, leans in closer to catch the other’s lips with his mouth while he’s still pinning Elon’s hands over his head via the loose tangle of his shirt. They stay like that for a moment, Micah tasting the heat on Elon’s tongue and Elon arching in closer for more, and then Elon works a hand free and back into Micah’s hair, and the edge of laughter between them melts away, converting seamlessly into something hot and shaky on Micah’s lips. Micah catches Elon’s lip between his, sucks the weight of intention against the soft of it, and when Elon exhales it comes out as a whimper, a tiny breathless sound of desperation that jolts through all Micah’s body. Micah doesn’t know which of them moves, if it’s him bearing Elon to the blankets or Elon dragging him down as he leans back, but when they move they move together, tipping backwards until there’s just the warm flush of Elon’s skin and the friction of his fingers in Micah’s hair, and then he slides his other hand free of his shirt and Micah lets the fabric go completely and there’s nothing at all other than Elon under him.

He doesn’t ask, this time. There’s no question, not with Elon arching towards him and hooking a leg over his hip, not with the hand twisting into his hair and the arm sliding over his shoulders. Everything is hot, friction and bare skin and the slick drag of oil against itself, and Micah’s barely had time for his heartrate to increase into the pattern of certainty when Elon tips up, and he settles down, and their bodies fall into alignment with each other. Micah takes a breath, a sharp inhale that fills his lungs with the same radiance he can see glowing in Elon’s eyes, and when Elon tugs at his hair he leans in, and down, and fits his mouth to Elon’s as he angles himself forward. There’s a catch of friction, a moment of hesitation; then heat, slick motion and too-tight pressure, and a shared noise of reaction on their tongues as Micah starts to slide into Elon. It’s not a whimper, not quite a groan; just an exhale, Micah thinks, or the sound of the other’s name, maybe, spilling into unintelligibility in the gap between them. Micah pauses, takes a moment to gasp for another breath, and then he rocks in closer, deeper, fitting himself inside Elon like it’s where he was always meant to be.

“Oh,” he manages, gets a hand up to cling to Elon’s hair, to wind his fingers into the strands while he turns his head sideways and presses his face hard against the other’s neck. “ _God_ , Elon, you’re.”

“Hot,” Elon finishes for him, sounding desperate, like he can’t fill his lungs on enough air or like he’s struggling with his inhales. His hold on Micah’s hair is strained, his arm trembling at Micah’s shoulder with the force of it. “You’re  _hot_.”

“Yeah,” Micah agrees, turning his head sideways to breathe against the curve of Elon’s ear. With his hand against the other’s hair he can pull, can urge Elon in closer until his nose is pressed to freckled cheekbone, until when he takes a breath it’s off heat-flushed skin. Elon is quivering against him, tight around him, and Micah wants to ask if he’s alright but he can’t find the words, can’t remember how to work his throat into coherency. The best he can manage is “Okay?” to carry the weight of the question while he stills for a moment, lets the electricity along his spine steady as he shifts his weight and frees his other hand to trail down the curve of Elon’s ribcage. Elon huffs an exhale, his whole body shaking like Micah’s weight is the only thing holding him in place, and then Micah gets his fingers against Elon’s cock and he can feel the jolt that runs through the other’s body, can feel the way he strains and gasps and arches against the contact.

“Elon,” Micah says again, too dazed with heat to form anything more coherent than the easy shape of the other’s name, the sound coming more easily than silence would. He curls his hand into a steady hold, slides up in a drag of careful friction, and Elon chokes on a breath, his head still tilted far back like he’s offering his throat for Micah’s lips. Micah ducks down, presses his mouth to the thrum of sound in Elon’s throat, and when he moves again it’s all at once, taking a stuttering thrust with his hips as he draws his hold up over Elon’s length.

“ _Oh_ ,” Elon gasps, and he’s shaking, he’s burning, his fingers keep tensing in Micah’s hair before releasing as quickly, a rhythmic flex of motion like he’s lost control of what he’s doing. “Ah,  _Micah_.”

“Good?” Micah asks, apparently rendered as wholly incoherent by the heat surging through his veins as Elon is. He presses his thumb against the head of Elon’s cock, feels the way the pressure makes Elon tense around him the moment before the added friction short-circuits his thoughts into a helpless groan against Elon’s throat.

“Good,” Elon says, and “More,” like he’s demanding, and Micah gives it to him without protest, braces his knee against the blankets so he can find a rhythm to the rocking motion of his hips as he brings their bodies together. Elon has a leg around his hip, an arm around his shoulder and a hand splayed wide against his back, and Micah doesn’t know how he still has space to move his hand but he’s stroking anyway, dragging his fingers over Elon as he feels his heart pounding faster, the heat in his blood flushing all his skin sticky with sweat and tingling with anticipation. He has to shut his eyes, has to block out the angle of Elon’s jaw and the pale line of his throat down to his shoulder; it’s too much, and he’s going too fast, and he has to wait, he has to hold off so Elon can -- and Elon tenses, and quakes, and comes between them in a pulse of heat Micah barely notices before his own held-off orgasm hits him on the first rush of relief. He’s gasping for air, panting into Elon’s shoulder like all the oxygen in the space has turned to steam, and Elon keeps arching and shuddering through aftershocks that draw Micah’s attention sparking uncontrolled and wild with each new wave of friction. Finally he has to let Elon go, has to brace his hand at the other’s hip to hold him down and still instead, and even then it’s a moment before the last waves of heat pass to leave him breathless and quivering with the pleasure of it.

“Oh,” Elon says, faint and slow, like he’s shocked or halfway to a dream. “That was.”

Micah takes a long inhale, deliberately drawn out in his throat, lets it out slow against Elon’s neck so the other shivers at the ticklishness and turns his head to meet the sensation. “You were,” Micah says, pressing his nose against Elon’s freckled cheek, and he can hear the sound of Elon smiling in the moment before they turn together and find each other’s lips.

It takes a while to clean up. They’re both sticky with sweat, and Elon with more; they take turns going out to the showers, unused at this time of night but not yet for so long that the sun-warmed water has cooled. By the time Micah comes back from his Elon is well over half-asleep, curled against one side of the blankets; Micah can’t even remember whose side it was, originally.

“Hey you,” Micah offers as he gets his boots back off and sheds his overshirt by the front tent flaps. Elon’s just wearing underwear and his thin shirt; his hair is curling around his head like a dark halo, framing the sharp lines of his face where he has his head pillowed on his arm. “Don’t fall asleep, you haven’t transformed yet.”

“Mm.” Elon stirs, blinks his eyes open. The gold looks softer than it usually does, dimmed by sleep as much as by the dark-blown pleasure still clinging to his pupils. He reaches out to catch Micah’s wrist in his fingers, tugs to draw the other towards him. “I don’t want to.”

Micah comes, falling sideways across the blankets to meet Elon’s gaze from the same level. He looks warm, his skin flushed pink with heat and satisfaction and affection, his lips damp and so soft Micah can’t help but lean in to kiss them.

“Don’t want to?” he repeats, starting to smile as Elon gets a knee between his, fits a hand into his hair and his head at Micah’s shoulder. “You’re going to stay with me tonight?”

“I’m going to stay with you tonight,” Elon agrees, tucking his forehead into Micah’s shoulder and his mouth at Micah’s collarbone. He is very warm. “Like this.”

Micah reaches up, lets his arm settle across the narrow span of Elon’s shoulders, feels the odd fragility of the bones under the weight of his hold. “Good,” he says, “I want you to.” He tips his head up to blow out the lamp, and when he falls asleep it’s with Elon breathing soft against his shoulder.


	28. Blue

Waking up the next morning is a slow process. Usually Micah turns away from the prospect of consciousness, burrows down into his blankets to breathe in the last few minutes of rest before he emerges for breakfast or, more recently, for a kiss. But today when he shifts there’s a hum of sound from next to him, the weight of definitely not a blanket tightening around his waist, and Micah’s smiling before he’s opened his eyes, glowing satisfaction and pleasure at the roof of the tent as Elon arches against him and sighs something unintelligible into his shoulder.

“Hey,” Micah says, low and soft in case Elon’s not completely awake yet. When he moves it’s to bring his arm up, to wind his fingers into dark hair. “It’s morning.”

“Micah,” Elon says, slow like he’s stretching himself into coherency the way he usually has to, like he’s remembering how to be human even though he hasn’t actually lost this form all night. The blankets are a tangle around their legs, Micah realizes when he moves; he would be cold with the lack were it not for Elon pressed against him and radiant over all his exposed skin. Elon’s shirt is pushed up over his chest, caught high over the curve of his waist; when Micah reaches for bare skin his fingers fit just under Elon’s ribcage, his touch curving into the outline of Elon’s deep inhale as he comes up to consciousness and blinks his eyes open.

“Oh,” Elon says, his gaze sliding immediately from Micah’s eyes to his mouth. “Hello.”

Micah grins. “Hi,” he says, and turns onto his side, sliding Elon to the blankets so he can gain the mobility needed to fit his mouth to the other’s. Elon is shutting his eyes in anticipation of the kiss before it comes, his hand in Micah’s hair like he’s guiding him down, and for a moment they both linger there, caught against the other’s skin and the dream-sweet reality of the night before. Micah pushes in closer, Elon lets himself roll back over the blankets, and if they had the time Micah would stage a repeat of last night, would sacrifice breakfast and their morning routine for the sake of another hour presed against Elon’s skin. But there’s a mission waiting for them, an hour or more of intent focus with the elite partners in the rest of the Corps, and breakfast is something Micah is very sure they shouldn’t skip, however convincingly the sound of Elon’s inhales going breathless is arguing that they should.

“We should eat,” he says, punctuates with a kiss hard enough to stand as a period instead of an ellipsis. “We’re on the scouting team this morning.”

“Later?” Elon asks, breathing the word into a seduction and a plea at once. His eyes are dark, his eyelashes heavy over half-lidded gold; it’s unfair that something so unstudied can be so effective at derailing Micah’s thoughts.

“Yeah,” he promises, as much for himself as for Elon, and kisses him again, a quick press of lips before he makes himself push up and away from the temptation of Elon’s breathing against his mouth.

It’s not the last kiss, not by a long shot. But it’s not as dangerous once Micah gets his shirt on, and Elon’s not quite as immediately tempting once he’s struggled into his pants, and finally they’re making for the tent flap and there’s only time for a glancing moment of friction -- Micah’s mouth at Elon’s cheek, Elon breathing hot against the braid over Micah’s ear -- before they’re emerging into the clean bright of the early dawn.

Breakfast is a rushed thing, more due to the early hour than because they are particularly late. No one is very talkative this early in the morning; even the ones who look alert are focused, caught in intense conversations or considering the sky like it will give them a way to foretell the events of the day. Elon and Micah are left to get their own food and eat in silence broken only by Elon catching Micah’s eye to smile or Micah reaching out to tuck one of Elon’s curls behind his ear. By the time the group is forming out of the disparate pairs assigned to it they’re both smiling, looking far too pleased for what it is they are setting out to do; Micah makes an effort to restrain himself into seriousness, but Elon just runs his fingers over one of Micah’s braids and hums faintly, as dreamy-pleased as if they were back in their tent.

“Remember,” their leader, Liam again, says, projecting his voice to be heard clearly over the silence that has fallen over the dozen collected pairs. “We don’t have a set goal today. For some of you--” his gaze takes in Micah and Elon, sweeps briefly over Talim at the edge of the group with a transformed Patrick on his shoulder; “this will be the first true scouting mission you’ve been on.” He steadies his feet, extends an arm; his Wing drops into shadow without another cue, settling into a flutter of dark and the sound of feathers in a high wind before landing smoothly on Liam’s extended forearm. The rest of the group follows suit, Wings flickering out of human form as fast as Micah looks; Elon’s fingers catch his sleeve, slide down to his hand and curl into a hold for a moment. Then there’s a rush of air, a gust of wind that catches and tangles into the weight of Micah’s hair, and Elon’s hand in his is gone, replaced by the fragile weight of the kite ruffling his feathers into place at Micah’s shoulder. Micah smiles without turning, lifts a hand to smooth over Elon’s feathers; there’s a tiny noise against his ear, a faint chirp of pleasure from the other, and Micah’s smile goes wider even as he exhales out his distraction to pay attention to what Liam is saying.

“We’ll spread out more than some of you are used to.” Liam is speaking deliberately, projecting his voice over the group and no farther; his gaze flickers over each Ground, lingers just long enough to impress the importance of what he’s saying. “Pay attention to the signals I’ll be sending out. I’ll be tracking the distance from camp so you can focus on the scouting itself. Wings will be in the sky; Grounds, keep an eye on them and on your surroundings so you don’t get caught unawares. You shouldn’t run into anything, but it’s possible; if we were sure of safety we wouldn’t be having this mission at all. Understood?” He waits until there’s been a wave of motion from the group, nods and a murmur of agreement from a few speakers; then he lifts an arm, sweeps it over his head to gesture them forward. “We’re off, then.”

They move forward together, the motion rippling over the entire group in a single smooth wave. Micah and Elon fall into position near the edge, just shy of the trailing flank and some feet away from Talim at the center of the group. Talim looks better than he has before -- less nervous, mostly, and certainly calmer -- and that’s all Micah has time to notice before he has to turn away and devote all his attention to his forward movement. The footing is stable but there’s more underbrush than they were hoping for; it takes effort to keep his steps quiet, and when he slips on a step Elon shifts on his shoulder, flicking out a wing to steady himself.

“Sorry,” Micah murmurs, so softly he can barely hear the words himself. “You should probably take off here anyway to start getting a read from above.” Elon shifts again, croons another note of audible affection; then he kicks off, pushing off Micah’s shoulder as his wings flick out to cut through the air. Micah watches him ascend, his smile going wider without his intention; then he ducks his head to look back down at what he’s doing and leaves the sky for Elon.

The forest is remarkably quiet, he finds, as the rest of the group disperses and the faint sound of their footsteps and breathing fades. Micah is left to pad softly through the trees, blinking at the dappled light trickling through the leaves overhead and listening to nothing more out-of-place than the occasional birdsong or the rustle of some small creature through the leaves. He looks up every few minutes, scanning the sky until he can make out Elon flying overhead; it makes him smile to see, warms his chest with affection pressing against the inside of his ribcage, and if he looks up more and more often as he proceeds, it doesn’t seem like anything worth worrying about, with nothing but forest around him.

It’s that, he thinks later, that is the problem. He’s looking up as he walks, distracted by the affection in his chest and on his lips, even the silence of his footsteps easy to maintain once he’s found the rhythm, and he doesn’t get a chance to see the movement in the underbrush even if it were enough for him to be able to pick out of the shadows. There’s just a force, a sudden impact that spins him sideways and stumbling backwards, and his attention jolts away, scattering under the force of the shock that hits him. He doesn’t even feel the pain for the first heartbeat; there’s only surprise, a numb pressure crushing his shoulder, and then he takes a breath and the agony hits. Adrenaline slams into his veins, blows all the air out of his lungs in a rush of sound, and he’s falling, collapsing to the ground as his feet slip out from under him and some part of his mind protests the giveaway sound that comes with the fall. His hand is up, his fingers closing around the weight of the pressure in his shoulder, and he’s just processing the shape against his palm as the shaft of an arrow when there’s a shout from overhead, a familiar voice made so desperate on panic Micah doesn’t recognize it for a moment.

“ _Micah!_ ” It’s Elon, the resonance of his voice tearing high on fright, and for a moment Micah gasps relief, the tension of pain in his chest easing at the reassurance of Elon’s presence.

Then he realizes where he last saw Elon,  _how_  he last saw Elon, and Micah’s head snaps up as Elon  _falls_.

There’s no time to react. Micah’s on the ground, is clutching at the arrow in his shoulder and gasping through the pain; he can’t even get to his feet in time, couldn’t do anything even if he were still upright. All he can do is blink, is take a breath of sharp, sudden panic, and then Elon hits the ground with a  _crack_  loud enough to blank out even the pain in Micah’s shoulder.

“ _Elon_ ” he blurts, and he’s moving, twisting up over onto his knees as he braces the weight of the arrow with his hold on it. He’s forgotten about the archer that must still be in range, has forgotten even about the rest of the team scattered within earshot; all he can think about is Elon, all he can see is the angle of narrow shoulders slumped into a curve over the ground. He can’t breathe, he can’t think, and then he’s in range and he’s letting the arrow go, gasping past the burst of associated pain as he reaches out to close his fingers hard on Elon’s shoulder.

“ _Elon_ ,” he’s saying, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice, doesn’t recognize the horror laid raw over the tremor on the sound. “Fuck,  _Elon_ , say something,  _please_.” And Elon moves, shifts an arm and takes a long, shuddering gasp, and Micah’s next exhale sounds like a sob of relief.

“God,” Micah says, blinking hard to clear tears from his vision. “You  _scared_  me, Elon, are you okay?” His hand is still clinging to Elon’s shoulder, bracing instead of pulling; Micah has no idea how badly hurt the other might be, doesn’t want to risk making anything worse, but he can’t let go, can’t ease the desperation in his hold even for a moment.

“Micah,” Elon grates, the gentle soft of his voice torn to shreds on the pain audible in his throat. Micah has a sympathetic shudder of hurt, concern for Elon enough to override the sharp ache of pain from his shoulder, and then Elon presses a hand against the ground to try to push himself up and makes an awful choking gasp of breathless agony at the motion, falling forward so suddenly Micah can’t even try to brace him against the impact.

“ _Shit_ ,” he says again, and he’s pulling now, reflex entirely overriding the training that says to leave Elon still, to call for help and backup from one of the others more trained in first aid. Elon sobs against the motion, the sound pulling from his throat with the weird resonance of involuntary reaction, but he doesn’t fight and then he’s on his back, gasping for air and bringing a hand up to his collarbone. His face is bloodless, his lips almost white with pain, and Micah moves before he can think, reaching out with his hurt arm towards Elon’s hand before the motion jolts agony through his body with such intensity his vision fades out for a moment.

“You’re hurt,” Elon says, his voice coming from very far away. “ _Micah_ ” and Micah has to answer that, so he takes a bracing inhale and forces himself back to clarity.

“I’m fine,” he insists as the haze clears from his vision, as he fills his lungs with a deliberately deep inhale. “I’ll be fine, are you--” and then his vision steadies, and he sees Elon’s eyes, and the question dies on his lips. There’s a chill down his spine, premonition of some horrible epiphany coming for him a moment before it’s sunk in; for a heartbeat he thinks it’s something in Elon’s expression, something about the taut line of pain at his mouth or the crease of agony in his forehead that is causing Micah’s stomach to go into free-fall. But it’s not his mouth, and it’s not his forehead; it’s his eyes that are chilling Micah’s blood, dark-lashed and wide with adrenaline and blue as the sky overhead, the color so vivid it almost looks like it’s glowing.

Blue. Micah stares, his thoughts jolting through logic around the distracting pain radiating out from the arrow in his shoulder. Not gold,  _blue_ , but Elon’s a Wing, and all Wings have...

“Elon,” Micah says past lips gone numb with adrenaline and pain and disbelief. “Can you transform?”

“What?” Elon asks, forehead creasing deeper, lips starting to tremble with confusion. “Right now?”

“Can you?” Micah demands, and there’s the sound of approaching footsteps, shouts of his name and Elon’s to speak to the arrival of support, of allies, of reinforcements that offer no comfort to the cold suspicion spreading into his veins. “Try, Elon, just  _try_  to.”

Elon’s mouth quivers, his eyes going liquid with strain, with incomprehension, with confusion Micah doesn’t have time to ease. But he blinks, his gaze drifting out of focus over Micah’s shoulder as the footsteps draw nearer, as Talim’s voice shouts “Micah!” in relief as the rest of the group draws into eyeshot.

When Elon blinks back into focus on Micah’s face, Micah doesn’t need to hear the answer aloud. It’s easy to read from the horrified understanding in his eyes.


	29. Steadying

Elon doesn’t cry.

Elon doesn’t make any sound at all, in fact. By the time Micah is released from the first aid tent with his shoulder aching and wrapped in the weight of bandages Elon is curled along one side of their bedrolls, twisted awkwardly to avoid putting extra strain on what Micah has been told is a broken collarbone. He doesn’t look up when Micah pulls the tentflap back, doesn’t respond when Micah says his name; he’s just still and silent, so quiet Micah would think he were asleep were it not for the tension hovering in the line of his shoulders and the blank stare he’s giving the side of the tent. It’s painful to watch but Micah can’t look away; he settles to the blankets just behind Elon instead, reaches out to risk ghosting his fingers through dark hair, and when there’s some movement it’s Elon’s shoulders easing, if only fractionally. It’s enough encouragement for Micah to continue, for him to steady out his touch into something heavier with the weight of attempted comfort, and Elon doesn’t cry and Elon doesn’t speak but he’s looks less tense as Micah continues, looks less like his body is formed of half-shattered glass that might break at a breath.

Then there’s a voice, Warnock saying “Micah” just outside the tent, and Elon hunches again, all the brittleness coming back with just a faint hiss of breath to speak to what pain the motion in his shoulders must cost him. Micah glares at the tent flap, ready to snap at his superior officer for not being more thoughtful; then he feels the tension in Elon’s neck, feels the strain that has formed under his touch, and all the fight drains out of him at once.

“I’ll be back,” he says, softly enough that Warnock can’t hear, so softly he thinks maybe Elon won’t hear it either. He thinks, though he can’t be sure, there might be some easing of the tension under his fingers.

Then he lifts his hand, and moves to leave the tent.

Warnock is waiting for him. His arms aren’t crossed, his features aren’t set; Micah was expecting a scowl, was braced for an explosion of fury, but what he gets is level consideration, dark eyes sweeping over his bandaged shoulder, his bare feet, whatever expression is on his unthinking face, and coming up with some conclusion Micah can’t make out of the other’s dark stare.

“Are you ready to talk?” Warnock asks bluntly.

Micah blinks. “Sir?”

Warnock jerks his head at Micah’s shoulder. “Your injuries have been treated. You’re on your feet, at least, which is more than can be said of your partner. I’m gonna talk to one or both of you, and with the way he looked when he came back in he’s in no state to do much of anything. You ready to talk?”

“Yes,” Micah says immediately, not because he is but because he’s sure Elon isn’t, because for all that Warnock’s expression doesn’t look like anger Micah can feel his spine stiffening into a wall, into a barrier of defense for those hunched shoulders and that silent breathing behind him. “I am.”

“Good.” Warnock considers the boots by the tent flap -- Micah’s, shed awkwardly with one good arm, and Elon’s, so neatly lined up Micah has to think someone else must have set them there. “Put your shoes on, we’re going for a walk.”

Micah puts his shoes on. It takes some effort -- his hand is clumsy, his shoulder aching whenever he puts any weight on it at all -- but Warnock just waits, staring off into the distance with his expression still offering that inscrutable calm that Micah can’t get a read on. Finally his boots are on, and Elon is still silent, and Micah turns his back on the tent flap with the fervent hope that it will serve as the locked door he wishes he could offer in place of his physical protection.

Warnock walks them to the edge of the camp in silence, a quiet not even broken by the sounds of conversation from the rest of the Corps. The rumor must have spread fast, Micah thinks with the giddy rush of horror, the gossip about a Wing falling out of the sky carrying itself around the camp while he was getting patched up, while Elon was being walked back to lie unmoving in an empty tent. The thought makes his chest ache, knots his throat on sudden tension, and he has to push it away, has to breathe deliberately to fit his inhales around the ache of misery in his lungs.

“You’re sleeping together,” Warnock finally says, abruptly, dropping the words into the quiet so suddenly that Micah jumps as much at the sound as at their meaning. Comprehension comes hard on the heels of hearing, realization coloring his cheeks into embarrassment, and between the self-consciousness and the strain settled against his ribcage what he says is a stiff, “Respectfully, sir, that is none of your business.”

“It absolutely is my business,” Warnock says to the trees in front of them. He still doesn’t look angry, any more than he looks sad; he’s just contemplative, watching their surroundings with a level gaze as if this is a perfectly ordinary conversation to be having. “And that wasn’t a question.” His chin comes up, he considers the sky like there’s something to see up there besides the clouds framing the blue. “It’s always the same, when this happens.”

Micah doesn’t say anything. Micah doesn’t know what to say, isn’t sure he’d find a voice even if he had the words. His throat is still tight, his eyes are starting to burn; he doesn’t dare look up to see the color of the sky overhead.

Warnock doesn’t so much as glance at him. He just keeps talking, steady, level, the tolling of a bell marking out the inevitable progression of time. “It used to be more common,” he says, the words conspiratorial but his tone perfectly level. “Before we started same-sex pairings. It’s too hard, otherwise, for partners to try to bond when they know there’s a line they have to not cross. The connections don’t take, it makes the partnerships almost useless.” He takes a breath, sighs resignation. “We used to have a quarter of the Wings Fall like your Elon did. It almost never happens, now. Only when partners get too attached to each other.”

Micah swallows hard, forces down the knot in his throat to his chest, pushes it down to fit lead-heavy along the inside of his ribcage. “Isn’t that the  _point_?”

Warnock looks at him then, finally, his gaze drawn by the broken-glass bite to Micah’s voice he can’t hold back. His eyes are dark, absent either pity or judgment; he just looks at Micah, so calm and cool that it eases the edge off Micah’s anger.

“It is,” he says, agreement Micah didn’t expect to win. “That’s why we don’t warn the new recruits. It’s no good if you’re always worried about it, and this almost never happens, even if partners do end up romantically involved.” He dips his chin, indicates Micah with the motion of his jaw. “This isn’t a new thing, right?”

Micah’s memory unfolds, offers weeks’ worth of kisses, the warm of Elon’s breathing against his hair, the taste of Elon’s skin at his lips. In retrospect it stretches farther back even than that first tentative kiss, rewinds to fingers in his hair and laughter at his side and maybe goes all the way back to that first day, to the motion of a knee unfolding and the shape of a careful smile to echo Micah’s.

He can’t speak. He shakes his head instead, agreement turned around into the shape of a denial.

Warnock nods with the slow motion of certainty. “That’s what I thought.” He looks back out at the trees, his jaw settling itself into steadiness. “You were too good too fast.” A sigh, a roll of his shoulders; he looks like he’s accepting a burden, like he’s settling some unseen weight over his back. “I should have stepped in sooner.”

Micah blinks. He can feel his blood going chill, his shoulders tensing with prescient understanding before he has the clarity of speech to support his suspicion. “What--” he starts, chokes on the words, forces himself to a full inhale. “What would you have done?”

Warnock looks back at him, meets his gaze unflinchingly. “We would have separated you,” he says, unapologetic in the admission. “Wings are too valuable to let them Fall in the name of romance.”

Micah’s shoulders hunch. It’s an involuntary response to the adrenaline in his veins, his entire body drawing tense in expectation of a fight to be fought with words and not with fists. “And now?” he says, knowing his voice is dropping into a threat that he lacks the strength to support, his adrenaline ready to take on the impossible task of winning this fight with all the reckless determination of protectiveness in his veins.

Warnock reaches out, his hand landing heavy at Micah’s shoulder. It’s startling, to have such gentle contact on such a tense reaction, and Micah’s adrenaline bleeds away, curdles into sick fear in his stomach instead.

“No point,” Warnock says, his words calm, steady, even enough to undo the nausea of panic in Micah’s stomach. “It won’t change anything now anyway.” His fingers tighten, press bruisingly hard into Micah’s shoulder for a moment. Micah doesn’t flinch, barely feels the hurt. “Better that he still has you, at least.”

There’s no pity in Warnock’s voice, only the steady calm of an objective observer, someone so distant from events as to be untouched by their outcome. It’s still not enough to hold back the tears that burn themselves past Micah’s eyes and down his cheeks. Warnock doesn’t look at him when he ducks his head to the shadow of his hair, but he doesn’t pull his hold away, either.


	30. Comfort

Micah can’t see Elon’s face when he gets back to the tent. The other has turned over while Micah was gone, twisted onto his stomach to bury his face against the tangle of their pillows, and he’s so quiet Micah thinks for a moment he might be asleep, might have managed to escape the weight of loss for however long he can manage to cling to unconsciousness. Micah’s the more quiet about taking his boots off, deliberately gentle in his movements as he shuffles into the shadow of the tent, but it turns out to be useless anyway; he’s just dropping to his knees when Elon shifts, turns his head in Micah’s direction, and manages a “What did he say?” as raw and scraping as if he’s been doing the crying his still-clear eyes say he hasn’t been.

“I thought you were asleep,” Micah says, and it’s a stupid diversion and he knows it is, the attempt at distraction coming from the prickle of awkward self-consciousness all along his spine instead of any rational part of his mind. He reaches out, wanting to press his fingers into the dark of Elon’s hair and acting on impulse before reconsideration stalls his hand to hover a few inches above Elon’s head. He isn’t sure how to ask if the contact is okay, isn’t sure if asking itself would be the wrong thing to do; it feels like all their almost-telepathic understanding has evaporated, dissolved as it if was all an illusion in the first place to leave them as much strangers as they were that first day.

Then Elon moves. It’s a difficult motion, requiring the press of his good hand down against the blankets so he can push himself up and into action, but he’s quick about it, moving before Micah can figure out what he’s doing, if he’s pulling away or leaning in or getting up to leave the tent entirely. Elon leans forward, his balance shaky without the use of his bandaged shoulder, but Micah catches up to what he’s doing a moment before the action is done, reaches out to catch Elon’s good shoulder and steady his weight as he leans down to rest the tangle of his curls in Micah’s lap.

“What did he say?” Elon asks again, his head tipped forward against Micah’s leg so his eyes are hidden in shadow.

Micah settles his fingers into Elon’s hair. He’s still not sure if this is the right thing to do, but he can see strain ease out of the line of Elon’s shoulders at the contact, and that seems as good a result as any he could hope for. “He said,” Micah starts, stops, his throat closing up on the guilt in the words to come, the implication of his own fault for the crack at Elon’s collarbone and the weight of the blue in his eyes. He wants to stop, wants to duck his head and hide in silence for a little longer, as long as he can; but Elon is trembling against him, the strain in his shoulders writing itself to tension Micah can feel through the weight of Elon’s head on his lap, and this is what he took on when he left earlier, this is the burden he’s sparing Elon.

So he takes a breath, and he squares his shoulders, and he talks.

It’s a short story. Even without the editing Micah is giving it, without the softening of Warnock’s blunt sentences, it took a very few minutes to hear the first time. The hardest part, Micah finds, as he frames words to distant restraint on his tongue to speak as if he’s talking about a stranger, is how quiet Elon is, how utterly, perfectly still he stays through the entire explanation. Micah can’t hear him breathing, can’t hear the catch on his inhales that would give away the possibility of tears; there’s just silence, as if it’s a statue lying over his lap and not the grief-striken other half of their partnership.

There’s a long quiet after Micah stops talking. His fingers are pressed into dark hair, his shoulder aching dull distraction; he pushes the pain aside, ignores the throb of hurt from the bandaged injury in favor of watching Elon’s bowed head and still shoulders for any sign at all of reaction.

Finally Elon stirs, takes a breath. “What would they have done?” he asks, voice still raw on held-back emotion. Micah has to appreciate how similar his own line of thought was to Elon’s, even as the echo in their responses demonstrates precisely the problem they didn’t know to worry about.

“We would have been,” he starts, and then has to stop, has to cut off the harsh edges of  _separated_  to find a better word, a euphemism as much for his own benefit as for Elon’s, since Micah knows Elon will see through it immediately. “Reassigned,” he finishes, even though the idea of Elon partnered to someone else crushes against his chest like a physical blow, even though the word sticks in his throat like it’s clotting into a solid. At his leg Elon takes a sharp, sudden inhale, the sound liquid with panic, and Micah’s shoulders curl in over him without thinking, the motion made involuntary on the way Elon’s fingers are making a fist at the edge of his shirt.

“It won’t happen,” he says, his assumed calm evaporating, the raw edge of determination dragging into his voice. “Not now, Warnock said so.”

“I don’t want to be apart from you,” Elon chokes against his shirt, his good hand dragging Micah in closer. “Don’t go, don’t leave me alone.”

“I won’t,” Micah says, his hand a fist in Elon’s hair, his shoulders tipping in with complete disregard for the way the movement aches at his injury. “I promise, Elon, I won’t leave you if you don’t want me to.”

“I don’t,” Elon manages, and then he takes an inhale, and Micah can hear it shatter into a sob as his shoulders shake and jolt into tears. “I don’t, stay with me, stay.”

“I will,” Micah promises, and he’s crying now, too, tears overflowing his eyes to spill dark into the black of Elon’s hair. “I’m right here, I won’t leave you.”

Elon makes a movement -- it might be a nod, it might just be a shiver of emotion -- and then he starts to cry in earnest, spoken coherency entirely given over to gasping, choking sobs that stick Micah’s pants damp to his skin and stab harder into his chest than the arrow did into his shoulder. Micah stays where he is, shoulders hunched in over Elon and eyes fixed on the tangle of his fingers in dark hair, and he lets Elon cry.

It’s the only thing he can do, now.


	31. Ache

The second time Micah goes to Warnock’s tent, he brings Elon with him.

Elon hasn’t spoken much in the day since the accident. What little he has put to words has been quiet, whispers or stifled sobs that have the same effect on Micah’s heart as if he were screaming. Micah fell asleep the night before with the other still and silent in his lap, unsure if Elon had managed to fall asleep or if he was just too tired to keep crying, only to wake to shaking shoulders and another round of the silent tears that are the worst, Micah thinks, the quiet underpinning them enough to shatter his own composure more effectively than shouting would. Warnock had come by before breakfast, speaking to them through the tent flap without pulling it aside for eye contact; Micah’s not sure if this was due to a desire to offer them some privacy or just because of the general unpleasantness of seeing someone as utterly broken as Elon is. In any case, it bought them another few hours of silent waiting, Micah sitting upright and listening to the murmurs of their names in the tone of gossip as the rest of the Corps passed by their tent while fitting his fingers into Elon’s hair to offer what comfort the friction can grant. It’s not until the hours after yet another skipped meal that he has to stir, has to say “Elon” with as much apology as he can fit into the one word. “We have to go.”

Elon responds more quickly than Micah expects him to. He unfolds himself with remarkable elegance, his shoulders holding steady even though he keeps his face ducked to shadow, like hiding the red of his eyes might hide the weight of misery Micah can see written into the sag of his spine and the tilt of his head. But he doesn’t cry, and he doesn’t speak, and when Micah moves to put on his boots Elon follows him, reaching out to brace himself at Micah’s shoulder as if his vision has gone, as if he’s fumbling in the dark with only the one point of contact to guide him. By the time they make it across the daytime stillness of the camp Elon has abandoned that grip in favor of Micah’s hand, clinging to the other’s fingers with a force so painfully hard Micah can feel it ache all the way up his elbow to ground out in his shoulder. He squeezes back instead of pulling away.

“Sir,” is the only greeting Micah offers as they approach the tent, a warning for their arrival in the moment before he reaches out to pull aside the tent flap. Warnock is hunched over the table again, frowning irritation at the paperwork in front of him, but when he looks up his hold on the sheets goes slack, the documents dropping to the table in front of him to be forgotten.

“Right,” he says, considering Micah in brief before giving Elon a much longer stare. Micah has to fight the urge to step in front of the other, to block the weight of Warnock’s gaze from Elon’s already overburdened shoulders. Warnock stares, and stares, and then clears his throat all at once and pushes to his feet to come around the edge of the desk.

“So,” he says without looking at them, collecting a heap of books and paperwork from one of the chairs on the far side of the table and dropping it unceremoniously to the floor. “Did Micah tell you what he was supposed to?” He waves a hand in dismissive invitation at the newly-empty chair, pivots to repeat the process with a stool Micah hadn’t even seen for the array of items precariously stacked atop it.

“I did,” Micah volunteers, trying not to sound defensive and not succeeding particularly well.

“Wasn’t asking you,” Warnock says, but there’s no judgment to the words. He drags the stool closer with his foot, nods at it before circling around the edge of the table to sit back down. “Sit down before you fall over.” He leans back in his chair, folds his arms over his chest and centers his focus back on Elon as Micah leads them in towards the offered seats.

“You can’t stay in the Corps,” he says with no introduction as soon as Elon is settled in the chair. “A partnership is no help without a Wing, and neither of you have that qualification anymore.” Elon’s hand tightens on Micah’s fingers, grinding pressure against the joints, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even lift his head. “All our incoming Wings have suggested matches already. The soonest we could look at reassigning Micah is a few years out, and frankly the odds of that happening are low. They’re not going to want to match you with anyone after this, and there’s never a shortage of Grounds.”

“I don’t want to be reassigned,” Micah says, hearing the words coming too-loud in the enclosed space until they are nearly a shout; it’s as if he’s borrowing all Elon’s voice too, his voice skipping to twice itself without his intention. “I don’t want another partner,” he continues, easing his voice back to something more reasonable for the space. “Sir.”

Warnock doesn’t even bat an eye. “No one’s going to force you,” he says, so easy with certainty it’s enough to calm some of the panic in Micah’s chest. “Grounds are expendable, if they don’t have an attached Wing.” His eyes slide to Elon again, linger there as he continues speaking. “I owe you an apology,” he says, the subject change occurring so quickly it takes Micah a moment to even realize it’s happened. “I should have caught this sooner.” For a man offering an apology Warnock doesn’t sounds very apologetic; he sounds steady, certain, like he’s stating an objective truth rather than claiming responsibility for an oversight of his own. “I did have my suspicions, but this sort of thing is rare in general, and I’ve never heard of it happening with an Egg before. Usually with those we’re looking out for swinging too far in the other direction.” He rolls his shoulders back; it’s almost a shrug, would be if he didn’t still look so certain of himself. “Now that this has happened we’ll keep a closer eye on it in the future, but that’s not much comfort to you. So.” He straightens his shoulders, clears his throat. “My apologies.”

Elon’s hold on Micah’s hand is bruising, aching hurt so sharp Micah’s vision is blurring with it, the back of his thoughts whimpering protest at the pain radiating up his arm. It’s too much for him to respond to Warnock; it’s all he can do to not hiss at the pressure of Elon’s hold, and in the gap between Warnock’s conclusion and Micah reestablishing composure it’s Elon who speaks, his voice cracking on the hoarse of tears in the back of his throat but still clear and louder than Micah’s heard him since the accident.

“What do we do now?” Elon asks, sounding almost sharp on the words, his voice the closest thing to angry Micah’s ever heard from him. When he looks over Elon’s staring at Warnock from under the dark of his hair, his mouth shaky on emotion but his eyes steady as a dare. “What  _can_  I do now?”

Warnock’s shoulders ease, his arms unfold. “You’re talking again,” he says, needless observation of a clear fact. “That’s a good start. Ready to be functional again?”

“I don’t want to be separated from Micah,” Elon says, as sharply as if Warnock is threatening such. Micah flinches at the edge to his voice, at the brittle snap of defensiveness in his tone, but when Warnock responds it’s with a laugh, a cough of sound so startling Micah jumps with it and even some of Elon’s hunched strain gives way to surprise instead.

“I’m not going to be the one to try to pry you two apart,” Warnock says, leaning in over the table with a grin still clinging to his lips. “No one else will either, if I have any say in it, which I do. I didn’t think you had enough backbone in you to get pissed at me. It feel better to be angry than upset?”

Elon frowns, but: “Yes,” he allows.

“Good.” Warnock nods to Elon’s hand, to the fist he’s making at Micah’s fingers. “Stop trying to break your boyfriend’s good hand and let’s talk about your options.”

Elon looks down, his anger evaporating when he sees how bloodless-white Micah’s fingers have gone. When he lets go it’s all at once, so quickly he’s actually drawing his hand away before Micah can react and reach out to catch at his wrist again. Elon’s gaze catches his as Micah winds their fingers back together, his mouth quirking into a smile that is as much apology as it is laughter.

It’s enough of a relief to see him smiling again to counteract all the ache running up Micah’s arm.


	32. Return

Patrick’s the one to see him first.

“ _Micah_ ,” he blurts, his eyes going wide with shock while the other three are still turned in over their food. Talim’s head whips up, a bite of bread still at his lips, and then he says “Holy  _shit_ ” and everyone within earshot looks up to give Micah a moment of absolute silence as he approaches the main clearing. It’s awkward, like walking into a spotlight formed of the stares of his friends and the whispers of strangers, and Micah is very, very glad that Elon stayed behind to speak to Warnock, if only to save himself from this first dramatic appearance.

The silence holds as he comes forward, as he rounds the end of the log still empty in he and Elon’s absence, as he drops to sit against the support. He should get food, he knows, but right now it’s taking all he has not to retreat back to the tent entirely; the hunger that brought him out here in the first place is thoroughly forgotten under the weight of his discomfort.

“Oh my god,” Talim says, finally, as the murmur of conversation picks back up at the edges of the clearing, voices Micah doesn’t know and doesn’t look up to identify filling in the weight of the silence over the immediate circle. “You’re  _alive_.”

Micah does look up at that, confusion winning out over discomfort for a moment. “What?”

“You’re alive,” Talim repeats, like his words will gain meaning if he just says them enough times in a row. “We all thought you were dead or dying.”

“What?” Micah asks again, his thoughts skidding out on this wholly unexpected reaction.

“You had an arrow in your shoulder,” Talim says. “And then you vanished. For  _days_. We all thought you were dying in the hospital tent or something.”

“We didn’t  _all_ ,” Patrick cuts in. “I thought you were fine.”

“What  _happened_?” Talim presses, leaning in closer as if to force the story past Micah’s lips. “Where have you been? Where’s Elon? Is your shoulder okay? You looked  _awful_  when we found you, like you were going to pass out right there.”

“I’m okay,” Micah says, because it’s the easiest and the truest answer he can give, and he’s not sure he can find the words for the rest of it right now. Talim’s words are a weight as they have never been before, the force of the conversation bearing Micah down to hunch over his knees; after days of near-silence with Elon beside him, the sudden rush of questions is hard to bear. “My shoulder will be fine, it just needs time to heal.”

“So everything’s fine then?” Talim asks, sounding hopeful in a way that just pushes harder at Micah’s slumped shoulders, that makes the burden of the truth feel like an actual weight more than it ever has before. “When are you coming back?”

“Micah,” Lia says, clearing her throat so Talim falls to silence as if he’s been commanded to quiet. “Where’s Elon?”

“He’s--” Micah starts, but his throat tenses, and he has to finish the sentence before the pause makes it worse than it is, but if he speaks he’ll sob, he knows he will, he’s not sure he can even stay where he is if he lets his voice crack into misery. “Elon’s--”

“Not dead,” a voice comes from over his shoulder, and all the tension in Micah’s body sags into sudden relief at the voice he doesn’t need to turn around to identify. “I don’t think I am, anyway.”

“Elon,” come three voices at once, startled reaction tangling into a burst of sound, and Micah looks up to catch Elon’s gaze. Elon’s spine is curved in, his arms folded over his chest, but he manages a smile when he catches Micah’s eye, and when he moves it’s to step over the log and sit down contact-close to Micah.

“Fucking hell,” Talim says, relief loud under his tone. “Where have you  _been_ , we all thought you were dead.”

“I didn’t,” Patrick interjects, but he’s leaning forward too, his gold eyes wide and worried. “Where were you?”

“Were you hurt?” Talim asks, apparently noticing the strange angle of Elon’s shoulder and the weight of the bandages drawing his shirt out-of-place across his shoulders. “Shit, Elon, are you going to be okay?”

“I’m alright,” Elon says without looking up, and Micah can hear the lie in the words but maybe that’s just because he knows that’s what it is, maybe it’s just his own awareness making the strain in Elon’s voice so clearly audible.

“Jesus,” Talim says, sounding shaky with relief. “Seriously, guys, you had us all scared, we thought you--”

“What’s wrong with your eyes?” Lia asks.

Talim falls quiet. There’s a beat of silence while Micah’s heart sinks at facing the inevitable conversation, the explanation they were always going to have to offer coming far sooner than he was ready for, if later than he expected. The words of explanation he had formed earlier evaporate, scattered from his thoughts by Elon’s unexpected presence, by the timing of the question, by the weight of attention bearing down on him like it’s trying to crush him beneath it. He’s reaching for words, scrambling for coherency to save Elon the telling of it, when there’s a hiss of breath, a jolt of reaction from the girls, and when Micah looks up Elon has raised his head. The color of his eyes is clear even in the dim lighting, even at a distance; the blue is bright, clear and saturated and clearly, obviously not the faintly-glowing gold of the other Wings’ eyes.

There’s a heartbeat of silence. Even Talim’s chatter falls quiet at this, as the relevance of the color sinks in. Micah’s heart is going too fast, his shoulder tensing against the onslaught of questions, the hurt of giving painful answers; he can feel his injury pull at the pressure, can feel the ache run down his arm like his panic has been given physical form.

“What are you going to do now?”

The voice is low, dipping into a range Micah can feel in his bones even though it’s barely loud enough to hear. He know who it must be, whose voice it is that he doesn’t know immediately; it’s still odd, to look up and see Trea leaning forward from her position to fix Elon with the pinpoint gold of her stare.

Elon takes a breath, a deep inhale that sounds strained but not like panic, not yet. “I don’t know,” he says, and his voice is clearer than Micah expects, carrying loud enough for everyone to hear. “We’re working on that.”

“Shit,” Talim breathes. “Are you going to be able to stay with the Corps?”

“Maybe,” Micah manages, this time. When he looks up Talim is watching him, the dark of his eyes wide with sympathy; there’s no judgment there, none of the cringing pity Micah was afraid of. Talim looks as comfortable as ever, even with his expression going soft on sympathy, and when he reaches out to clap a hand at Micah’s shoulder it’s heavy enough to carry reassurance even as he’s careful of the other’s bandage.

“I hope you two can stick around,” he says. “The girls barely talk to us when you’re not here.”

“That is not true,” Lia protests at the same time that Patrick drawls, “I wonder why,” and Talim turns away to shove Patrick sideways and off the log entirely. In the moment of distraction that follows Micah looks to Elon, meets the new color in familiar eyes.

“Okay?” he asks in an undertone, reaching out to touch his fingers to the inside of Elon’s wrist.

Elon turns his hand up, threads his fingers through Micah’s and offers a smile that is almost sincere, even if it doesn’t entirely push aside the shadows in his eyes. “Yes,” he says, and ducks his head in to press his forehead to Micah’s shoulder. When Micah looks up, Trea is watching them, her attention lingering in spite of the conversation forming between the other three. Her eyes are very bright in the low light, her features sharp in the shadows. She doesn’t smile when she meets Micah’s gaze, but her eyelashes dip, her chin tilts into a nod, and when she looks away Micah takes a breath free of the strain on his shoulders.


	33. Confirmation

“Are you okay?” Micah asks later, when they’re back in their tent and Elon’s head is bowed over the motion of his fingers on the laces of his shirt. Micah is sitting on the other side of the tent, watching without touching; Elon seems fragile in his head, feels more so under his hands, and Micah’s afraid to touch too much, to push too hard when Elon’s shoulders seem shakier than they’ve ever been before. “That was kind of exhausting.”

“I’m fine,” Elon says without looking up. His laces come loose and he reaches to drag his shirt carefully over his head, to free the pale of his arms for the glow of the lamplight. Micah can see his shoulderblades work with the motion, the sweep of them made slow and stuttering by Elon’s care with his bandaged shoulder, like wings beating out of time with each other. “It was good to see everyone.”

“Yeah,” Micah agrees without looking away from Elon’s back. His heart is aching, his eyes burning; it’s hard to keep his voice steady, to even out his words into something calm and neutral instead of dragging with the guilt hanging so heavy in his blood. “It was.”

Elon looks over his shoulder at Micah. His eyes catch the lamplight, go bright and clear with the illumination; they’re beautiful, really, but it’s hard to look at them, hard to face the color that stands as such a dramatic tell for their accident, for their mistake, for all the unknowing decisions they made that brought them here, now, with Elon’s shoulder wrapped to immobility and that sadness in his face that Micah can’t push aside. Micah takes a breath, feels it stick in his throat, and he has to speak, has to clear his voice of the tears that are threatening or he’ll lose his traction on composure and collapse into the burden he doesn’t want to be.

“What did you talk to Warnock about?” he says, looking away from Elon’s eyes, landing his gaze more safely on the texture of the blankets under him. Everything is bright in the lamplight, glowing warm and soft and comforting, and Micah wishes desperately he never had to leave this tent again, that he could stay here without ever going out to face the reality of what has happened. “Does he have any ideas for what you can do?”

“He had some suggestions,” Elon says, careful on the words, like they’re metered by how much composure he can sustain. “There is a chance I could work with the new recruits. He said I could offer the other side of the perspective to new Grounds, since they don’t usually speak with a Wing until they meet their partners.”

“That’s weird,” Micah says, still staring at the blanket as his mouth tumbles over words of its own accord, talking more to fill the loaded silence behind his lips with sound more than because he’s paying any attention to what he’s saying. “Wouldn’t that be a great opportunity for training?”

Elon hesitates. “Most Wings are out scouting too much to help with training,” he says, and Micah’s head comes up, his heart sinking at the obvious explanation he should have grasped. “Since I can’t be useful like that anymore--”

“I’m sorry,” Micah blurts, so fast he completely cuts off the pace of Elon’s words. Elon blinks, shuts his mouth on whatever else he was going to say, and Micah takes a breath, makes himself hold Elon’s startled stare while his throat clenches tight on the heat of misery. “I’m so, so sorry, Elon.” He takes a breath, hears it hitch in his throat, but he’s started talking now and he can’t make himself stop, even when his breathing starts to go raw and anxious around the words. “This wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t partnered with me in the first place, or if I had been paying more attention to what I was doing on the mission, or if I--” His words cut off, his throat closing on itself, and then he blinks and his vision blurs into the damp of tears sliding over his cheeks.

“Fuck,” he says, the sound harsh on his lips, and he ducks his head, brings his sleeve up to press hard against his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Elon.”

There’s a pause, a heartbeat of silence; Micah can feel the tears pressing against the back of his eyes, trembling up his throat and aching in his chest. He sets his jaw, clenches his teeth, tries to push them back; and Elon’s hand lands at his shoulder, fingers fluttering into the space between his sleeve and his collar, and Micah chokes on another sob as the tears become inevitable and unstoppable.

“Micah.” Calm, steady as Micah didn’t expect Elon to sound; it’s enough to lift his head from the cover of his arm, to bring him blinking himself back into wet-eyed focus on Elon’s face. Elon is on his knees in front of Micah, watching him with his eyes gone huge and liquid with emotion Micah can’t place, or can’t pull apart for how many layers there are. But he’s not crying, and he’s not leaving, and when his hand shifts it’s only to press his fingers harder at Micah’s shoulder. “Was it a mistake?”

There’s no judgment on the question. There’s just curiosity, sincere and heavy on Elon’s lips, and for a moment Micah can do nothing but stare, nothing but take in the color of Elon’s eyes, and the soft at his mouth, and the tension setting into a line along his jaw. His freckles are dark across his cheekbones, the irregular pattern of them spreading out to brush his hairline, and for all that his mouth is soft it’s set into a line right now, trembling with intensity that Micah can feel thrum anticipation through him. Micah takes a breath, tastes the faint smoke of the lamp on his tongue as he stares at Elon’s face, and he thinks about the past: the warmth of Elon’s smile, the drag of his hands, the soft of his eyelashes, the smooth of his skin. He thinks about sparring, the rhythm of his movements falling in with Elon’s as graceful as a dance, and he thinks about kissing, the way his lips fit against Elon’s hip, the way the tremor in Elon’s stomach tastes under his lips.

“I’d do it again,” Micah says.

Elon blinks. His lashes shift, drag shadows over blue eyes and away again; and then he smiles, his mouth curving so slow on the expression Micah doesn’t realize that’s what it is for a moment. The happiness lights up his face, spreads across his lips and catches at the corners of his eyes, and Micah is just sucking in an inhale of breathless appreciation when Elon says, “Me too,” and rocks forward on his knees. His fingers fit over Micah’s shirt, slide up along the edge of seam towards his hair, and Micah’s eyelashes flutter, his throat working the pressure of tears into responsive heat as Elon’s fingers wind into the weight of his hair and curl tight into a hold to steady him in place as the other leans in. Micah reaches out, touches his fingers to the freckles on Elon’s cheek, pushes his hand back and into the soft of dark hair, and Elon sighs, a shudder of anticipated satisfaction in the breath before he closes the gap to press his mouth to Micah’s. Their lips fit together as easily as Elon’s fingers fit into Micah’s hair, finding the pattern of closeness as if nothing has changed at all, and when Micah’s throat works it’s on a whimper of relief instead of the sob that threatened before.

It’s a comfort, he decides as he tugs Elon closer, as Elon slides in nearer to straddle the support of his legs, to know that they still have each other.


	34. Selfish

This time, Micah doesn’t wait to be called to Warnock’s tent.

He wakes before Elon does, stirring to consciousness while the sunlight still has the brittle, diamond-edged quality of dawn against the front of the tent. The air is chilly even once he gets his shirt on, enough to make him flinch from it as he draws the tent flap open to lose the heat of the interior to the bite of the outside. He leaves fast, before either the cut of the light or the cold of the air is enough to wake Elon from the depth of his unmovingly deep sleep, kicks into his boots with a haste borne on the chill in the air and gets to his feet to stumble across the camp while breathing hard past the cold filling his lungs with each breath.

He doesn’t worry if Warnock is awake. The idea of the captain asleep at all is nearly impossible to fathom, and even if Elon is still dreaming the rest of the camp is stirring into the wakefulness that comes of a camp half-full of Wings used to rising with the sun, less the night scouts like Trea. Micah can’t imagine Warnock sleeping any later than the rest of the camp, and when he pauses outside the captain’s tent to say “Captain Warnock?” it’s from an unwillingness to intrude instead of a fear of waking the other. His assumption is confirmed immediately in the form of a “Yeah” loud enough to carry through the closed tent flaps, and Micah takes another lungful of cold air and steps forward to duck past the barrier.

Warnock is out of bed, hunched in over his desk with so much weight on his shoulders Micah wonders for a moment if he’s slept at all. But when he looks up his eyes are clear, bright and sharp enough to give the lie to Micah’s brief concern even before his eyebrows raise in a moment of not-quite surprise at seeing who his visitor is.

“Micah,” he says, straightening minimally from his desk. “Wondered how long it’d take you to come by.”

“Sir,” Micah says, speaking very nearly over Warnock’s sketched-out greeting, the words coming up his throat with no thought at all. “I’d like a position with the Corps.”

There’s a pause. Warnock tips back by another few inches, considering Micah without any visible emotion in the dark of his eyes; after a few heartbeats Micah takes another breath, clasps his hands behind his back to keep them from shaking, and continues speaking. “Elon told me there’s a possibility he can remain with the Corps as a trainer for new recruits.” The words are level, his voice steady; Micah’s not sure how he’s managing to sound so calm when the threat of rejection is weighing so hard on him, but something has taken over his tongue, is pushing words out of his throat as if he’s reciting them from someone else’s head even as his own thoughts scramble for a read on Warnock’s expression, reach for some indication of approval or dismissal in the captain’s steady gaze. “I’d like him to be able to stay, if possible. Is there a place for me here in a capacity other than a Ground?” Warnock is still watching him, still considering him with complete impassivity, and Micah’s panic is starting to leech into his throat, starting to stumble him into a backtracking explanation as his hands shake against the grip he has on them. “I know I won’t be reassigned another partner, and I’m not interested in that, but--” He shuts his mouth on the uncontrolled spill of words, blinks hard to steady his vision; when he takes a breath it’s audible, an obvious effort to calm himself, but at least it eases a little of the pressure in his chest and clears some of the dizzy adrenaline from his thoughts. “Sir.”

“You won’t be assigned another partner,” Warnock says, clear and crisp and so decided Micah flinches even though he knew this fact already, even though even thinking of an attempt to replace Elon as his partner twists his stomach with nausea. It’s the dark in Warnock’s eyes, he thinks, the unblinking stare that is making every sentence in his throat sound like a judgment. “There’s no place in the Corps for an unmatched Ground.”

“I know,” Micah manages, feeling panic climb in his chest and tense painfully along his spine. “I know there’s not, I’m asking--”

“Listen to me,” Warnock says, the words absent judgment but loud enough to still Micah’s speech on his lips. “You don’t have the experience to be a trainer and you don’t have the unique insight that Elon has to offer in that role. You can’t help with scouting and you can’t help with training.” He pauses, holding Micah’s gaze for a long moment like he’s waiting for a response; Micah doesn’t say anything, and finally Warnock relaxes back into his chair, his shoulders unfolding from the strain they’ve sustained since the other came in.

“We need recruiters,” he says without any transition from the unstated  _but_  his pause left hanging in the air. “Wings are easy, we’ll take all the ones we can get, but Grounds have to be sorted from the incoming candidates. Just because someone wants to work with the Corps doesn’t mean they have the aptitude or the ability to succeed at it.” His finger taps against the table, the rhythm as considering as his gaze. “You have to keep track of all the unmatched Wings. Even the best candidate is no good without a possible partner; sometimes you end up turning away someone who’s more capable than the alternative just because the Wing needs someone else.”

“I can do it,” Micah blurts. “Sir. I can do it, I promise I can.”

“Understand,” Warnock says, slower on the words even than he usually is, weighting each one until it falls like a stone into water. “I don’t care about your personal perspective. What’s happened is done, there’s no point fretting over it now. But.” He leans forward, tips his weight over the desk; it’s a small movement, for something that so intensifies his presence, that so fills the room with the fact of his existence. “From the perspective of the Corps, partnering you and Elon was a  _mistake_.” His eyes are dark, his mouth set. “ _My_  mistake. If you want to pursue this path, you need to understand that. I don’t care what you think in your own head, but any decisions you make  _must_  be made for the good of the Corps and not based on your personal feelings.” Warnock’s shoulders shift, square into something like a wall, impassable and focused. “You  _cannot_  be the cause of another Fall.”

Micah’s heart is pounding in his chest, relief and hurt and the sharp edges of that word dragging against each other until he can feel the burn behind his eyes, can feel the threat of tension climbing in his throat. “Sir,” he says, not sure what tone he’s hitting, not knowing if it comes out as sullen or petulant or obedient. “I understand.”

Warnock nods. “Fine,” he says, the word a judgment, a decision, pavement for the path he has framed for Micah’s consideration. “I’ll see that it happens.” He casts about the table, reaches for a clean sheet of paper; when he looks down the dismissal is clear even before he says, “I don’t have anything for either of you to do for a few days at least. Go keep your Elon company.”

“Right,” Micah manages. “Yes. I will. Thank you.”

“You were a good recruit,” Warnock says without looking up. “The Corps would be worse off without you. Go.”

Micah goes. The sun is fully over the horizon, now, sliding towards the tops of the trees as the blinding-white illumination of the dawn starts to ease into the softer gold of the morning light. The camp is coming alive, tent flaps pulling aside to allow the first few early risers to exit in pursuit of breakfast. Micah watches them -- partners lingering by the door of their tent, calling back to another still inside or falling into step as they move towards the main clearing. Their movements are easy, synchronized in a way Micah’s never consciously noticed before, two bodies moving in a rhythm as easily as if they were operated by the same unconscious mind. Micah stands still, and he watches, and he feels an ache spreading in his chest, affection and loss and grief and gratitude all together, too entangled to pull apart even if he were willing to try. He stands there as long as he can bear it, watching Grounds and Wings fall into sync with each other, looking at the different ways two individuals can frame themselves into the outline of a single entity, and he feels Elon’s absence like a lost limb, like a gap in space where something should be, until when he glances sideways it’s startling to find no one there.

And then he moves, finally, stepping away from the space in front of Warnock’s tent to go back to his own, to the warmth of the air and the familiarity of the space and to Elon and the fierce, selfish gratitude for having him.


	35. Unvoiced

Elon’s still asleep when Micah returns to the tent. He’s barely moved in the time the other has been gone; the most change Micah can see is that he’s tipped over onto his stomach instead of his side to curl over and around the blankets left empty by Micah’s absence. He looks peaceful, with his expression relaxed into unconscious comfort and his arm wrapped around the tangle of blankets Micah slipped free of this morning; it makes Micah smile, winning the expression from him even around the ache in his chest, the pressure of affection so sharp it prickles the threat of tears behind his eyes as he drops to his knees and crawls in over the bed.

“Elon,” he says, soft and careful on the other’s name as if it’s made of glass, as if it’ll shatter with too rough a touch. When he reaches out it’s to ghost his fingers over Elon’s hair, to push against the curls at his forehead instead of startling him with direct contact. “It’s morning.”

Elon’s forehead creases for a moment, his mouth tensing into an unconscious frown; when he shifts it’s to roll onto his back, to start to lift an arm towards his face before his wrist bumps Micah’s. He blinks his eyes open, follows the line of Micah’s arm up to his face, and all the waking tension in his expression melts to sudden softness.

“Micah,” he says, and his hand shifts, his fingers turning to fall into contact at the other’s arm. “You’re back.”

“Yeah.” Micah braces himself against the blankets, lets himself topple sideways over them; Elon draws back to make space for him, is still smiling as Micah stretches out alongside him. His eyes are soft, too drowsy to have yet picked up the sadness that has been ever-present for the last few days, the curve of his mouth softer still. “Morning.”

“Where did you go?” Elon asks, his hand coming out to alight in Micah’s hair, his fingers working into the loose strands to make a hold out of the contact.

“Warnock,” Micah says, and reaches out over the tangle of blankets to fit his hand under their weight, to find the warm of Elon’s waist under the thin of his undershirt. “I wanted to talk to him about positions I could take in the Corps.” Elon’s fingers tighten, some of the softness in his eyes twisting into panic, and Micah talks fast, writing over the other’s concern before it can fully form. “He said I could help with recruiting.”

Elon blinks. His eyes are very blue in the dim light, saturated and dark as the glowing gold never used to be. “Recruiting?”

“Yeah.” Micah shifts closer by an inch, presses the blankets between his body and Elon’s. He can feel the pace of Elon’s breathing this close, can hear the way it’s steadying down from the first concerned inhale at his words. “Working with the new Ground applicants to pull candidates to be assigned partners in the Corps.” He tips his head closer, bumps his forehead against Elon’s; he can see the other’s eyelashes flutter shut, can see the way he starts to smile at the contact. “He said he’ll get it sorted out in a couple days.”

“Ah,” Elon says, and he’s hooking his elbow over Micah’s shoulder, is tugging to urge them closer still. Micah fits his knee over Elon’s, tangles their legs together through the blankets. Elon is very warm against him. “So you’re staying?”

Micah smiles. It’s easy, unthinking; he can feel it break over his face like the sun rising, the familiarity of the expression strange after the shadow of the past few days. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m staying with you.”

Elon doesn’t answer aloud. He sighs instead, a shaky exhale of relief that gusts warm over Micah’s lips, and then he’s pressing closer, tilting his head and leaning in to fit his mouth to Micah’s. Micah shuts his eyes, lets the careful friction at his lips overwhelm his senses, and when he moves his arm fits around Elon like it was meant to be there, like he’s acting on instinct instead of on thought. Elon arches against him, parts his lips into invitation, and for a moment Micah’s not thinking about anything at all except for the shift of Elon breathing under the hold of his arm and the damp friction of the other’s mouth against his. His attention slips away on the joint distractions of relief and affection, his thoughts clearing completely for the first time since the accident, and when he tips himself in towards Elon it’s with nothing in his head except for the distant, incoherent desire to be closer.

He’s not expecting Elon’s reaction. Elon makes a sound, a faint, desperate noise against Micah’s mouth, and if Micah’s motion was gentle Elon’s response is nothing of the sort. He arches towards Micah with no hesitation, pins himself hard against the resistance of the other’s chest, and when Micah starts to fall backwards in startled capitulation Elon follows him, keeping his hold on Micah’s shoulders as they roll back over the blankets under them. His mouth crushes against Micah’s, his movements gone suddenly fluid with desperation, and when he pulls back for a moment it’s only to kick entirely free of the blankets around his waist. Micah’s left gasping, his hazy thoughts still trying to catch up with what’s happening before Elon is back against him, slotting their knees together and aligning the whole length of his body flush with the other’s. His fingers come back for Micah’s hair, curl into a steadying hold on the strands, and then he’s kissing him again, the advantage of his position giving him the edge in mobility too. Micah’s heart is pounding, his blood firing to heat in his veins, and then Elon’s leg presses down to grind against him and it’s his turn to arch off the floor, choking off a sound that hits him so hard it breaks the friction of Elon’s mouth on his. Elon whines over his lips, grinds himself closer, and Micah reaches out to grab at Elon’s hips to hold him steady while he rocks up and into the other’s weight.

“Micah,” Elon says, framing the sound of Micah’s name into weight that carries whole sentences of unstated meaning, affection and heat and desperation and desire all at the same time without the limited range of mere language. “I want.”

“Yeah,” Micah offers, and he shifts his leg, braces his foot against the blankets so he can get traction to grind up against Elon, to press the resistance of his leg to the heat of Elon hard under the thin layer of what clothes he still has on. “We’ll have to be quiet.”

“Okay,” Elon agrees in instant surrender. Micah is sure he could say anything at all and Elon would agree with him, wouldn’t even wait to the end of the sentence to capitulate. “Can we…?”

“Yeah,” Micah says again, his thoughts narrowing down to that one word of surrender, basic approval the only thing he can offer around the slur of heat filling his head and whiting out his thoughts. “Please. Yeah.”

“Good,” Elon says, and leans in again for another kiss, pressing the friction of want into Micah’s mouth like he’s trying to stamp his mark against the other’s lips. Micah groans, too-loud but caught and muffled to quiet against Elon’s mouth, and Elon catches at his lip, sucks gentle pressure against it while he disentangles his hand from Micah’s hair to fumble up over the other’s shoulder. Micah lets his hold at Elon’s hip go, reaches up with his good arm without turning to watch his movement, and they stretch together for a moment in pursuit of their shared goal. Then Micah’s fingers skim resistance, Elon catches the contact, and when Elon tips the bottle over Micah grabs it, drawing it back in as he frees his other hand. Elon lets him go after the press of another kiss, sitting up to rock back over his knees, and Micah wants to protest the loss of contact but Elon is looking heat-stunned over him and he doubts the other would even parse the words. Elon tugs his shirt up over his head with the careful motion his healing injury requires, and Micah is left to stare at the pale of his skin in the faint illumination of the sun outside their tent, left to catch his breath at the inky dark of Elon’s hair and the shadows in his eyes as the other looks down to watch Micah work the bottle in his hands open. Micah has the lid off, is moving to spill liquid over his fingers, and then Elon shifts, makes some tiny whining sound, and Micah stalls himself to hesitation as a new idea offers itself to him.

“Elon,” he says, his voice dipping weirdly low until he can feel the hum of it through his chest and against the dull, distant ache in his bandaged shoulder. “Do you…?”

Elon blinks. For a moment Micah is sure the unfinished question won’t be enough, can feel his cheeks starting to warm as he reaches for the right way to put words to the thought in his head. But then Elon’s eyes go wider, his lips part on an _oh_ he doesn’t voice, and he reaches out suddenly, closing his fingers around the bottle like he’s afraid Micah will retract the offer if he waits. Micah relinquishes it to him, letting Elon take the weight from his hand so he can reach for the front of his pants instead and work the fastenings loose.

“Just get your fingers slippery,” Micah tells him, a rush of information to answer the uncertainty printed clear all across Elon’s face. He shifts to work his leg free of the other’s and Elon moves all at once, tipping sideways so Micah can bring his knees up and push his pants down and off his legs. “You don’t need a lot.”

Elon ducks his head, turns his palm up to catch the liquid he spills over his skin. Micah’s attention is caught by the slick shine over the other’s fingers, his gaze drawing over the elegant shift of Elon’s motions as he spreads the slippery liquid across his skin; it’s hard to breathe, Micah can’t seem to catch a proper inhale, but it’s impossible to stay where he is on the floor when it leaves him so far from Elon. He pushes himself up to take his weight on his elbow, reaches to take the bottle back from Elon so he can close the lid and set it aside.

“Okay,” he says, ready with instruction on his tongue, but Elon is sliding in closer, reaching to brace his hand at Micah’s knee without needing to be told. Micah takes a breath, feels the weight of it spread hot into his chest, and lets his knees fall open into an invitation clear without the necessity of words. Elon’s gaze trails the movement of Micah’s legs, clinging to the inside line of them like a touch until Micah is shaking with the weight of his stare before Elon has even touched slick fingers against him. The liquid is cool, Elon’s skin is hot, and when Micah lets his breath go in deliberate surrender Elon doesn’t wait for verbal confirmation. He just moves, pushing like he’s acting on some unstated signal to slide a finger carefully into the other. Micah shuts his eyes, bites back a groan, and Elon is moving deeper, the slide of his touch slow but no less certain for how gently he’s going. Micah’s trembling, his whole body flaring alternately hot and tense as the force of Elon’s touch slides into him, and it’s a stretch but the friction is good, good enough that he has to press his lips tight together to swallow back the moan he wants to offer in response. It’s all heat in his veins, sparking flares of white behind his shut eyes and undoing the connections of his thoughts into sensation, and then Elon stops moving and Micah takes a ragged inhale and realizes the other has hit the limit of his reach.

“Move,” he says, intending it as a suggestion and hearing it come out as an order. “You can.”

Elon doesn’t speak. Micah’s not completely sure he remembers how to; his own grasp of language has always come more easily than Elon’s, and even he is losing his grasp on sentences, the words in his head collapsing into their component syllables even as Elon draws his hand back to take another careful-slow slide. It aches up Micah’s spine, the stretch and the burn of it, but the pressure is good, he thinks, or at least is giving him an odd weight of heat collecting low in his stomach, almost-pleasure too big for him to see in its entirety. He’s hard against his shirt, the head of his cock flushed hot and aching, but he doesn’t reach down for himself; there’s a strange breathless hesitance all through him, like the only sensation that really exists is the movement of Elon’s touch inside him. Elon draws his hand back, presses the slip of another finger against Micah’s entrance, and when he pushes again Micah can feel the tension in his body shudder and ease into surrender to the force. It’s almost too much, Micah thinks dizzily, the stretch is teetering right on the edge of pain and increasing with each inch deeper Elon slides, but when his back arches it’s to push in for more instead of flinching away, his body reaching to tighten the knot of heat tensing in his stomach. Elon pushes deeper, his breath catching audibly as the friction of his touch dips farther, and something in Micah shudders into pleasure, the undecided ache in his body converting itself into relief all at once.

“There,” he says in a voice he doesn’t recognize, hearing the sound strain in his throat as if his entire body is being drawn taut around Elon’s touch. “Please. Elon.” The pauses are too big, the gap between the words not the brief hesitation he intended but a chasm, but Elon doesn’t speak at that either. He just moves, drawing his hand back to slide forward again, and this time Micah groans, louder than he intended and hotter than he expected, his entire body quaking with the shivering sensation of Elon’s touch. He brings his hand up to cover his mouth to catch the sound back; he barely manages it in time before Elon moves again, before Micah’s spine is arching him into a tense curve of sensation. His legs are straining, his shoulder throbs dull protest, and Elon’s fingers draw tight on his knee as he pulls back for another thrust. Micah opens his eyes again, blinking hard in pursuit of vision, but all he gets are images in random succession: the angle of Elon’s wrist, the shocked-bright sky of his eyes, the tremor running visibly along the inside of Micah’s thighs. Micah eases his hold over his mouth, gasps a breath of hot air, and then Elon slides in and he’s stifling his reaction again, the carrying resonance of his response muffled into a faint whimper that he can at least convince himself won’t be heard by their closest neighbors in camp.

“Micah,” Elon breathes, his voice lower than Micah has ever heard it before, so saturated with resonance Micah can feel it hum at the back of his head. Micah gasps air, manages a groan that he hopes sounds like the agreement it is intended as; when he lets his hand go to reach out for Elon’s shoulder Elon is already sliding his touch free, acting on some unstated breath of understanding between them. He’s hard against his underwear, visibly straining at the fabric before he rocks back to push it off his hips, and Micah’s reaching for him without thinking, closing his hand at Elon’s hip to pull him closer while Elon is still struggling free of the fabric. Elon rocks forward, reaching out to brace himself at the blankets with his good hand, and Micah stays where he is, pushed up on his elbow so his eyes are on level with Elon’s bandaged collarbone.

“Here,” he says, pointless instruction that he didn’t really need to put voice to, because he’s fitting his leg around Elon’s hip and tilting himself closer and Elon is dropping his weight into a low angle so suggestive it sticks Micah’s breath in his chest. He lets Elon’s hip go, reaches to brace himself at the back of the other’s neck instead; Elon is shaking very slightly under his touch, the strain of the position or the anticipation or both writing itself over his skin. Elon ducks his head, his lips catching at Micah’s hair just over his ear, and Micah shuts his eyes and leans in close to catch his mouth against Elon’s shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. He can feel the shiver in Elon’s shoulders smooth and steady into certainty; and then Elon moves, rocking his hips forward in a slow drag of movement, and the dark behind Micah’s shut eyes lights up sparking-hot with sensation. Micah makes some sound, a moan only half-stifled at Elon’s shoulder, but Elon is nearly silent, only the gasp of his breathing at Micah’s hair to speak to his own reaction. He keeps moving, sliding forward in one steady thrust, and Micah can’t breathe and he can’t stop the sound in his throat, he’s shaking and moaning and grabbing desperately at Elon’s neck like that will somehow steady him out. The stretch is too much, it’s undoing him from himself, and is this what it was like for Elon, did it feel this much like being melted down by painless fire and remade around the shape of the other? Elon takes a breath, his inhale catching into a whine as he hesitates, and then he draws back and Micah has to crush his mouth to Elon’s shoulder in expectation of the next wave of sensation. It’s a good thing he does; his vision goes white with it, this time, his back arching and his legs flexing into a long, involuntary tremor, and when he groans “ _Elon_ ” he hears the sound before he’s even processed that he’s the one making it. Elon gasps at his hair, the sound so strained it’s almost a sob, and then he moves into another thrust, faster than the first, and Micah lets any resistance he had left go, lets the surge of heat in his veins unfasten all his threads of mental coherency from themselves. There’s too much to focus on: the drag of friction as Elon pushes into him, the heat of Elon’s skin flushing to sweat-damp under his fingers, the shaky sound of Elon breathing against his hair. Micah can’t hear his own voice for the echo of sensation in his head; it’s all tangling together, the electricity along his spine and the weight of anticipation in his stomach and the ache of his cock bumping against Elon’s skin at the end of each stroke. Micah lets his hold on the other’s neck go, reaches down to fumble for a grip around himself; his fingers are clumsy, his movements jerky, but it’s enough to jolt a wave of tension through his body, enough to convert the pressure of heat in him into the leading edge of satisfaction. Micah takes another stroke over himself, pours friction into his veins from the pull of his hand, and Elon chokes a breath as his movements stutter to a stop, his cock spilling heat Micah can feel even against the backdrop of the burn surging through all his body. Elon whimpers, Micah groans, and then his fingers slip against the aching head of his cock and he comes in a rush, the held-back pleasure of orgasm breaking over him like it was waiting on a cue. Elon chokes on another breath, trembling through this new wave of sensation, but Micah barely hears him; he’s lost to the shudder of relief rushing through him, pulled under by the satisfaction that washes the tension out of his limbs and the thoughts clear from his head to leave his head ringing with the aftermath of pleasure. His fingers are sticky, his shirt is a mess, his shoulder aches, but none of that matters right now; there’s only one thought in his head, only one word he can find in the hazy white that fills his mind.

“Elon,” he says, the vowels running shaky on the hoarseness in his throat from sounds he doesn’t remember making, from an excess of volume he can’t recall. He takes a breath, swallows moisture back into his throat. “Elon.”

There’s a breath at his shoulder, an exhale trembling itself back to steadiness. Elon ducks his head, presses hard against Micah’s shoulder; Micah can feel the tremor in his bracing arm, can feel how hard Elon’s breathing is coming. But “Micah” is all Elon says, the sound shaking with warmth as it falls from his lips, and Micah shuts his eyes and lets the press of his lips to Elon’s shoulder speak for itself.


	36. Balance

“Are you okay?”

It’s a simple question. The words form easy in Micah’s head, should fall as easily from his lips. But they stick instead, twist into a knot of panic at the back of his throat, and when he finally manages to push them into sound it’s only as a whisper that grants them all the context they lack from the individual components themselves.

Elon tilts his head, craning back over his shoulder to glance at Micah. It’s late, Micah knows without having to see the tapestry of stars that has formed outside the secure island of their tent, but he feels like he hasn’t seen Elon for weeks instead of just spending one day apart while he shadowed Warnock through meeting the new Ground recruits. There was more than enough to distract him: four dozen names to memorize in quick succession, plus a constant stream of commentary offered by Warnock regarding each recruit’s personality and possible compatibility with the available Wings, none of whom Micah has yet met. But amidst the distraction of his surroundings Micah felt Elon’s absence the most keenly, like the space next to him was missing a vital component, like he could feel the weight of Elon waiting alone in their tent pressing against his shoulders with tangible force. It was a relief to return to the careful curve of Elon’s smile, even with the soft sadness that is always behind his eyes, now, and Micah spent the entirety of dinner pressed so close to the other his elbow bumped Elon’s side with every shift of his hand. He doesn’t remember what he ate; all he remembers is the ache of relief in his chest, the appreciation of Elon warm beside him where he could look sideways and reassure himself of the other’s safety as often as he liked. Micah’s sure he made for terrible company for everyone else, but that’s to worry about later; right then he needed to be back in their tent, needed to get his hands into Elon’s hair and his mouth against his skin and breathe in all the warmth he’s been freezing without all day.

Some of the tension has faded, now, almost an hour after their return. Micah’s warm, at least, can feel the ache of affection hot in the cradle of his chest, and Elon is curled in front of him, his shoulders hunched and head bowed to the gentle drag of Micah’s fingers through the strands. They’re getting longer, Micah realizes, long enough to curl around his fingers like even Elon’s hair wants to hold onto him; he suspects they could hold a braid, now, at least for more than a few seconds. It’s to the weight of Elon’s hair that he speaks, when he can finally muster the steadiness to ask what he’s been wondering, to put words to the concern that’s been eating at him with the persistence of guilt all day.

Elon turns his head, tipping his shoulders to roll onto his back instead of his side. His eyes are wide, clear and bright in the glow of the lamp; Micah wants to kiss him again, wants to chase away the tension clinging to the other’s shoulders with the press of his lips, but that will just be another distraction, another moment of avoidance, and he wants an answer more than he wants the temporarily relief kissing would bring.

Elon blinks, slow and careful. When he answers it’s with as much care, like he’s picking his words out of a dictionary and making sure they fit together correctly. “I think I am.”

“I’m sorry I was gone all day,” Micah says, because he is, even if he doesn’t see a way to prevent a repetition of the same tomorrow. “I could ask Warnock if you can come with me until the recruits are paired and you can start your training.”

Elon smiles so suddenly Micah’s not prepared for it, isn’t ready for how bright and warm the expression is as it breaks across his face. Micah’s words die to quiet, the guilt in his thoughts fading for a moment, and Elon lifts a hand to touch against his face, to press his palm to the edge of the other’s jaw.

“It’s alright,” he says, his touch lingering heat, his fingers sliding gentle over Micah’s skin. His touch is heavier than it used to be, less of a ghostly contact and more the heat of friction; it makes Micah shudder appreciation, turns his head involuntarily closer as Elon’s hand slides up and into the weight of his hair, dipping through the soft of the locks undone from the braids they were last in during the accident. “You need to focus on your own training.”

“I know,” Micah admits. Elon’s fingers drag against the back of his neck, slide down over the line of his shoulder; it makes him shiver, makes him smile in spite of himself. “I just don’t want to leave you here alone all day.”

Elon shakes his head, the motion so slow Micah’s not even sure it’s wholly intentional. He’s watching his fingers, staring at Micah’s hair instead of his eyes; there’s still a shadow behind his gaze, still tension clinging to his shoulders, but his mouth is relaxed, holding the shape of a smile instead of the suggestion of unhappiness, and it’s enough to help unwind some of the strain in Micah’s chest.

“No,” Elon says, sounding distracted, like he’s not really hearing what he’s saying. “I’m fine. And I wasn’t alone all day. Trea came by after lunch.”

Micah blinks, surprise taking the place of stress in his thoughts. “Trea did?”

“Yes.” Elon’s fingers catch at Micah’s hair, wind into the bottom inch of the strands. The tug of his hold is familiar, soothing with the weight of memory behind it. “We talked for most of the afternoon.”

Micah blinks again. He can barely call up Trea’s voice in his mind at all, much less any recollection of her speaking more than once or twice in the midst of a dinnertime conversation. “You _talked_ to Trea?”

Elon looks back to Micah’s face. “Yes.” His mouth quirks at the corner, tugs itself into amusement that threatens bright at the blue of his eyes. “I like Trea.”

“I like Trea too,” Micah clarifies. “I’ve just never seen her talk much at _all_. And never without Lia around.”

“You and I are always around each other too,” Elon points out. “Trea doesn’t like talking very much. She says it’s hard to communicate that way.”

“Like when you--” Micah starts before he can catch himself, before he can catch back anything more than the word _transformed_ from his lips. The thought is a cold one, the memory of the ruffle of feathers and the familiar shape of the lost kite painful; Micah can feel his throat close up, can feel his eyes burn with the threat of sudden tears.

“Yes,” Elon says, steadily enough that Micah manages a breath and forces himself back into focus. Elon is watching his hair, not his eyes, and his mouth is tight on concentration, but when he blinks his lashes stay dry, and when he takes a breath he sounds like he’s bracing himself. “She understands what it’s like.” He shifts his head, adjusts his other arm so it’s across his stomach instead of at his side; Micah stays quiet, lets the draw of Elon’s fingers through his hair lull him to patience while Elon forms his thoughts into the coherency of words.

“It’s difficult to keep the balance,” Elon says finally, his fingers falling to Micah’s shoulder and trailing over the edge of the bandage wrapping the other’s healing injury. “You have to remember what it’s like to be both forms all the time, even when you’re not about to change.” He takes a breath, sighs it out. “Trea has to sleep in her human form. She says it’s harder to relax that way and she can’t get really comfortable, but the last time she didn’t it took her three tries before she could transform back after a mission.”

Micah blinks. “What if she…?” But he knows the answer -- it’s there in the giveaway color of Elon’s eyes, formed in the crack across his collarbone and the weight in his shoulders. He tries to imagine the other direction -- seeing the recognition flicker out of the gold in a kite’s eyes, losing Elon to the sky instead of trapping him on the ground -- and suddenly there are tears in his throat, pressure so intense he can’t even try to speak for the knot closing off his airway.

“It helps to have a partner,” Elon says. “It’s easier once you’re in the Corps.” He takes a breath, lets it out in a sigh; Micah can hear the tremble under it, the emotion under Elon’s voice working itself free on his exhale more than along the steady line of his words. “Trea knows what it’s like to lose yourself.”

“I’m glad she has Lia,” Micah manages, his words still strained on the tension of what-if panic in his throat. “They make a good team.”

“Yes,” Elon says, and then he looks up, his eyes catching and holding Micah’s stare. He blinks, his mouth going soft as he falls quiet for a moment; there’s a thousand things behind his eyes, the color shifting and going dark as he stares at Micah.

“I’m glad I have you,” he says finally, softly, like it’s a secret. His fingers tighten in Micah’s hair, curl into a hold on the trailing locks. “I’m glad we’re together.”

Micah stares at Elon, stares at the bright of his eyes and the soft of his mouth and the dip of his shoulders, and he _aches_ , the familiar surge of grief and guilt and gratitude coming too fast and too entwined to break apart. There’s pain for what has been lost, fear of what could have been, appreciation for what is, and this time when he blinks his lashes go heavy with moisture.

“Me too,” he says, his voice cracking on tears halfway through. Micah takes a breath as his chest tightens, as emotion surges up his throat, but when he opens his mouth it’s a laugh that comes out, relief winning out over misery as it always will, he’s sure, so long as he has Elon with him. “I’m glad too.” And he leans in to kiss the soft of a smile into Elon’s mouth.


	37. Unexpected

“It looks like we’re going to have about eight pairs from this batch,” Warnock says to Elon. “Maybe nine, if we can find a match for the falcon. She’s been tricky to deal with so far, though, and she’s young, so we might wait to see if we have better luck with the next set of Grounds.” He slides a sheet of paper free from the stack in his hands, sets it on top so he can pin it in place with his thumb and gesture at the list written over it. “These pairs are set for sure. I’m taking Micah to meet with the Wings tomorrow; you should come with us so you can get to know them before they get their pair assignments.”

Elon nods without lifting his gaze from the sheet of paper Warnock is angling towards him. Micah can see the focus on his face, can watch the intensity in his eyes like he’s trying to memorize all the names at once without the aid of faces or personalities to match them to.

“Here,” Warnock says, sliding the list free and offering it to Elon. Elon looks up to blink surprise at him, but Micah’s the only one to see the reaction; Warnock’s looking back at his stack of notes, not even waiting for Elon to take the sheet from his hands before he’s moving on to the next thought. “Don’t make too many assumptions about them. Wings tend to change a lot once they’re paired, and if you have too many ideas about what kind of support they’ll need you’ll trip yourself up.”

Elon takes the sheet. Micah can see his hands shaking very slightly on the paper, the thin layer of it enough to make the tremor in his fingers telltale via the quiver of the paper. “Will it be just me?”

Warnock’s laugh is too loud, startling enough that Micah looks up from the strain in Elon’s expression and Elon jumps visibly where they’re seated. Warnock doesn’t notice their reaction, or doesn’t care; he’s still looking at his notes, grinning amusement down at them without meeting either Elon or Micah’s shocked stare. “Of course not,” he says, peeling another sheet out of the pile and handing it towards Elon with no explanation. This one has names familiar to Micah, the list of Ground recruits edited down to just those likely to be partnered. There _are_ notes for this one; apparently going in with assumptions isn’t nearly as much of a concern for new Grounds as it is for the Wings. “I handled the training on my own before, you’re just here to help as you can. But I haven’t ever been a Wing myself, and you might not be now but you know what it was like.”

It’s remarkably blunt. Micah flinches from the edge on the past tense, from the pain of hearing Elon’s loss so casually acknowledged, but Elon is nodding, and if his jaw is set his voice is clear with sincerity when he says, “I’ll do my best.”

“Wouldn’t expect otherwise,” Warnock agrees. “Tonight you should go over the notes on the Grounds, and then tomorrow we -- can I help you?” He cuts himself off sharply, his voice swinging into a more professional volume that makes the subject of the question clearly not them even before Micah’s looked up to see where Warnock is looking. He follows the captain’s gaze down the path that leads out of the main Corps encampment, but he doesn’t recognize the people standing along it. There are three of them, two adults and a somewhat younger girl, standing close together like they’ve never been in the camp before and looking around with as much concern as if there might be danger lurking around every corner; something about the hunch of their shoulders is familiar, shared across all three of them and catching at some memory in the back of Micah’s mind, and then he recognizes the nervous strain of Wings even before he thinks to look for the gold in their eyes. It’s there, of course, all three of them blinking bright at Warnock’s question, and then Elon takes a startled inhale and Micah’s attention veers back around to his partner as the papers in the other’s hands fall to drift forgotten to the ground.

“I.” Elon takes a breath, swallows hard; Micah can see tension in his throat, can see his eyes going huge and bright with unshed tears in the moment that he’s still too startled to speak. “Dad?”

Micah looks back at the strangers, his attention drawn unavoidably by the implication of Elon’s words. There’s a resemblance, he can see clearly as soon as he knows to search for it; the older woman’s eyes are the same shape if the wrong color, the younger’s cheekbones are sharp as Elon’s own. But then the man smiles, relief spreading sudden as sunshine over his features, and Micah can see Elon in it, can see the shape of what Elon will be in the outline of this stranger’s face. Elon takes another breath, this one audibly in the shape of a sob, and Micah looks back to him just as Elon pushes off the bench and towards the newcomers, his mouth collapsing into the gasping softness of tears even before he’s gotten close enough to throw himself bodily into the outstretched arms of his father.

“Here,” Warnock says. Micah glances at him long enough to see the dropped papers Warnock is holding out to him; he takes them, smoothes them back into alignment, and Warnock sighs and draws his own stack in against his chest as he stands. “We’ll pick this back up later.”

“Sir?” Micah asks, trying to keep his mind on the conversation as his attention catches on the shake of Elon’s shoulders, as he tries to gauge the sound of the other’s tears as pain or relief.

Warnock jerks his chin towards the cluster Elon is making with his family. “You’re both going to be distracted for a while,” he says, with the flat tones of objectively and none of the edge of judgment. “The pairings can wait for a day or two.”

Micah’s throat tightens, twists itself into a knot of emotion so sudden he can’t breathe for a moment. “Thank you,” he says, but it comes out small and Warnock’s already turning away. “Sir.”

Warnock’s lifted hand is the only sign he gives that Micah’s gratitude has been heard, but still, it’s enough.


	38. Right

Micah waits in the main clearing.

Elon retreated to their tent with his family shortly after their arrival, his shoulders shaking and his breathing catching into near-hysteria that Micah didn’t want to interrupt by trying to have even rushed introductions. Elon’s inhales sounded like sobs, his exhales tearing at his throat like he was in the depths of anguish, but the strain across his shoulders had evaporated as if it was never there, and the slump of his body against the support of his parents’ hold spoke more clearly to his relief than words could. Micah stayed still, watching the four of them move down the path in a murmur of conversation and comfort too soft for him to hear; it wasn’t until they had ducked out of sight that Warnock cleared his throat and Micah remembered he was there at all.

“Take the main clearing,” Warnock suggested. “No one’ll be there at this time of day, you’ll have it to yourself.” And then he had left too, leaving Micah with the fading sound of Elon’s relieved tears and the awkward self-consciousness of having nowhere to belong for a few hours.

The clearing was a good recommendation. The perpetual bonfire is lower than it is in the cool of the evening, crackling itself into sustainability without generating an excess of heat, but it gives Micah something to watch, something to focus his attention on while he thinks about Elon, thinks about the way his voice cracked on emotion at seeing his parents and how well he fits into their arms. It’s a relief, Micah realizes, a comfort for a worry he hadn’t entirely acknowledged before; seeing Elon’s family so ready to accept him without so much as a word about his Fall undoes some strain in his chest, calms some half-formed panic about rejection or being disowned or something similarly terrifying and unlikely. He’s turning the thought over in his head, starting to smile at the absurdity of the concern in the first place, when there’s the sound of footsteps crunching along the path, and when he turns Elon’s sister is watching him.

“You’re Micah,” she says, a statement and not a question. When she steps forward Micah can see her grind her toe into the dirt underfoot, a deliberate motion to increase the sound of her movement, and he is suddenly very sure that she could approach with absolute silence if she chose.

“Yeah,” he says, trying and failing to get a read on the faint glow of gold in her eyes. She’s watching him, barely even blinking as she approaches; she comes close, rounding the end of the log Micah’s sitting on, and closer still, until they are near enough to shake hands if she lifts hers and offers it.

“Hanna,” she says, deliberately, blinking like punctuation for the statement. She doesn’t offer her hand but she does duck her head, making the shape of a nod into greeting. “I’m glad to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Micah imitates her nod, thinks about standing, but he’s still turning the idea over in his head when Hanna turns suddenly to face the fire and moves to settle herself on the log a few feet away from him. She tips her weight forward, draws her knees up to brace her heels against the log; the motion is so abruptly reminiscent of Elon the first day they met that Micah has to blink hard to clear his eyes of the afterimage of memory.

“We chased you out of your tent,” Hanna says, and that’s not a question either. Micah looks at her but she’s not facing him; she’s staring at the fire, her eyes wide and focused on the flames. Her hair is twisted against the back of her neck, pinned or tied in place to keep the dark of it out of her face.

“No,” Micah starts, then pauses, retreats back to the realm of accuracy. “I mean, kind of, but it’s fine, I don’t mind. I’m glad you came to see him.”

Hanna nods. “Of course,” she says. There’s remarkably little emotion on her voice; it’s all in the hunch of her shoulders instead, written into the angle of her arms wrapped around her knees. “It’s good you’re here for him.”

There’s a pause. Hanna is gazing at the fire, her eyes wide and distracted; Micah’s not sure she’s seeing the flicker of the flames at all. Micah is left to stare as long as he wants, to see the echoes of Elon’s shoulders in the dip of hers, to see the curl of Elon’s shorter hair in the waves of Hanna’s. And the eyes, of course, Hanna’s lashes as long as Elon’s but her eyes still the clear, untouched gold of a Wing instead of showing the telltale blue Elon’s have turned.

“I’m sorry,” Micah says, tasting sincerity on his tongue, his half-ignored guilt making a reappearance with Hanna’s eyes in front of him to remind him of what Elon lost, what Micah _caused_ him to lose. Hanna turns her head without unfolding her legs, fixes Micah with that clear stare, and Micah takes a breath and keeps talking, offering words that aren’t enough, that are never going to be enough to make up for the accident. “About what happened. It wasn’t something I wanted, ever.” He rolls his shoulder idly, feels the ache of the motion in his healing injury; it’s a faint hurt but a familiar one, something he’s come to reach for by habit whenever he’s forming the complicated tangle of these words in particular. “I don’t--I don’t want to be separated from him, and I don’t wish that we had been, but.”

There’s a pause. Micah can’t find the words for the end of this, can’t choose one path or another between the things he would do again and the things he wish hadn’t happened at all; it feels wrong to apologize for something he doesn’t regret, but recognizing that isn’t enough to undo the sour twist of guilt low in his stomach. He falls quiet, working the edge of his lip against his teeth while Hanna stares at him with no discernable reaction in her face.

“I was in the Corps,” she finally says, suddenly, the sound of her voice so startling Micah nearly jumps at it. “When I was younger. They found a partner for me when I was a little older than Elon is now and he was still a fledgling.” She blinks, her eyelashes shifting shadows over bright gold, and when her eyes come open again she’s looking through Micah, out past him to the haze of some memory he can’t see.

“Her name was Gretchen,” Hanna says, and her mouth quirks on a smile, her eyes going softer than Micah’s seen them in the last several minutes. “She was a few years younger than me, one of the youngest in her group.”

There’s a stall of silence. Micah takes a breath, risks asking the obvious. “What happened?”

“We did great,” Hanna says, still looking through Micah instead of watching his face directly. “We bonded right away and did well in all the practice flights.” She smiles wider, her head canting to the side. “She reminded me of Elon. It was like having a little sister along with a brother.”

She takes a breath, lets it out in a rush. Micah can see her shoulders sag, can see them adopt a weight he hadn’t known to look for before. “But we couldn’t do field missions. We tried one, once, the very first time we went out on a test run, and I thought I saw someone doubling around the back of the group and tried to yell a warning.” Her eyes are still glazed, her smile is gone; there’s just stillness in her face, now, calm resignation to something so long past it’s been relegated to the distance of inevitability. “I didn’t shift forms, but I did fall out of my assigned flight path, and everyone knew why. They stopped the mission there and brought us back to camp first thing.”

“God,” Micah breathes, too stunned to find anything more coherent to offer.

“They separated us right away,” Hanna goes on. “Gretchen went back to the first-round trainees and I got reassigned to a different Ground with the next batch of recruits. I haven’t seen her since; I don’t even know if she got partnered with a different Wing.” She blinks, and the haze in her eyes disappears and clears into focus again, her attention coming back to land on Micah’s face.

“It was the right decision for me,” she says, even and certain with the distractions of emotion stripped free by the years between the experience and her telling of it. “I worked with the Corps for years, I was able to be useful.” She tips her head back, looks up at the sky overhead. “Maybe it wouldn’t have been right for you two. Wings are supposed to bound with their Ground partners, the relationship doesn’t work otherwise; you both did exactly what you were told to do, just better than you were expected to.”

“But now Elon’s stuck,” Micah says. His voice is strained but it doesn’t crack; it’s easier, somehow, to offer words to the suggestion of Elon’s features in Hanna’s expression, to speak to the half-distracted angle of her gaze at the sky. “He’ll never fly again. He’s a human, now. Is it worth it?”

“I don’t know,” Hanna says. “It wasn’t for me. It might be, for him.” Her gaze slides down, drifting to land at Micah’s face again. “And you’re wrong.”

Micah blinks. “What?”

“He’s still a Wing.” Hanna unfolds from her seat, pushes to her feet. Standing she’s as tall as Elon is, the close-set angle of her feet making her look thinner and lankier even than she would otherwise. “It doesn’t matter that he can’t fly. He’s still himself.” Micah blinks again, caught in a sudden surge of comfort from her words, and Hanna reaches out to offer him her hand.

“Come on,” she says, gold eyes level on Micah’s face. “You should come back to the tent. You belong with him.”

Micah takes a breath, feels it strain against the knot in his throat and press into the weight on his chest. Then he lets it go, and takes Hanna’s hand, and lets her pull him to his feet so he can return to where he belongs.


	39. Promised

Elon’s family leaves with the setting of the sun. Elon had stopped crying by the time Micah and Hanna returned to the tent, even if his eyes still showed the swollen red of too-much emotion; he gave Micah a smile, and reached out for his hand, and Micah took the offer and returned a smile of his own and settled to sit pressed contact-close to Elon’s hip while the conversation flowed around him like a stream parting around the distraction of a rock. It was nice to just listen, to let the odd rhythm of the others’ speech fall over him like rain; by the time falling night began to darken the sunlight at the front of the tent and Elon’s family collected themselves to go, Micah’s initial discomfort was entirely forgotten in the comfortable lull of small talk between family members who know each other well. He stood with the flow of movement, followed Elon out the door of the tent without needing to be pulled or to slide his hand from the other’s hold, and when Elon finally stood in the gathering dark waving a farewell Micah lifted his opposite hand to offer the same without more than a flicker of self-consciousness.

Elon is very quiet, after. Dinner is a near-silent affair; by the time they make it to the main clearing the cluster of their usual friends has dissipated, Patrick and Talim to bed and Trea and Lia to the warm-up practices they always perform before their late-night missions. Micah considers the set of Elon’s stare, the way he gazes into the bright of the fire with so much intensity the new color of his eyes flickers into almost its original shade, and turns his attention to his meal rather than interrupting the introspection dominating Elon’s expression. They eat in silence, and they return in silence, and even when Elon pauses outside their tent instead of returning to the warm glow inside it’s without words, moving with economical efficiency that indicates his intention faster than language could. Micah watches Elon perch atop the highest edge of the rock outside the entrance, waits until he’s settled with a balance that looks effortless, and then he mirrors him, stepping away over the few feet of distance to settle onto his own rock and bring a knee up to hug into the line of his chest.

For several minutes neither of them speak. Micah’s attention is held by watching Elon, caught in the shift of his eyelashes and the tilt of his head as he looks up and away, gazing up at the sky overhead like he’s waiting for the first stars to appear. Micah can see the dark deepening over them, can see the light of day fading to give way to the glow of starlight and the weight of the moon, but he doesn’t look up; he’s more caught by Elon’s face, too busy watching the reflection of moonlight off the pale edge of the other’s cheekbones to look up and see the original source. Elon’s arching back over the rock, holding himself upright by the hold he has on his drawn-up knee; Micah can see the edge of white bandage under the open collar of his shirt, but the angle of unthinking effort in Elon’s arms says his bones are mending themselves, held together long enough now that they can bear some minor weight on their own once more. Micah’s shoulder aches, offers a reminder of pain in case he’s forgotten about his own injury, but it’s faint, a distant hurt easy to ignore, and even when he rolls his shoulder it doesn’t spike into the sharp edge of true agony.

“Will I meet your family someday?” Elon asks, with so little warning that Micah’s attention startles back to the other’s face instead of clinging to the bandage wrapping his shoulder, his heart fluttering fast like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Elon’s not looking at him; he’s still tipped back to gaze upwards into the night sky, his lashes collecting shadows from the darkness when he blinks. The moonlight is making a smooth arc of his throat, casting it into marble, into porcelain, making the unthinking grace of Elon’s position into something structured for deliberate artistry.

Micah blinks, has to strain for coherency. It’s hard to hold to the words on Elon’s lips when he’s so struck by visuals, but at least the question is easy to understand, and easier to answer once he’s pulled himself back into something like the present moment.

“Sure.” He lets his knee go, slides the weight of his leg down the rock under him. If he stretches his toes he can touch the ground, can kick a scuff of dust away from the divot he’s dug during previous conversations in this same position. “Anytime you want. It’s a ways away, it’d take us a few days to get from here to there, but they’d love to meet you.”

Elon’s head comes down, his chin dipping until the moonlight skates off his features and lands in his hair instead, turning the dark of the curls even blacker by comparison. His eyes are colorless in the dim lighting, his lashes shadowy. “Would they?”

“Of course,” Micah says, as certain of this as he is certain of anything. “It might be a little overwhelming, I think my siblings would fight over which of them got more of your attention.”

Elon smiles, slow, a drag of happiness at his lips that pulls his head sideways too, tilts amusement into the line of his shoulders as much as it does the curve of his mouth. “That sounds like fun.”

“It would be,” Micah agrees, and leans back, reaching behind himself to brace his weight on his good arm. “I’ll take you soon. Then you can meet them for yourself.”

Elon blinks at him. “Will you?”

“Yeah,” Micah says. “It’s only fair, now that I’ve got to meet your family, right?”

Elon’s smile goes wider, spreading to pull at the corners of his mouth and sparkling bright into his eyes. For a moment his shoulders go back, the careful hunch over his injury forgotten as he leans back into relief.

“Okay,” he says. “I’d like that.”

They both fall silent after that, but Elon’s looking at Micah this time, and when the moonlight touches them it does so unwatched.


	40. Height

“Oh shit,” Micah gasps, feeling his heart seize tight in his chest as Elon’s foot slips a half-inch on the branch overhead. “Be _careful_.”

Elon looks down at him, blinking so wide and startled it’s enough to chase away Micah’s panic for a moment. “I am being careful,” he says, and then reaches up for the next branch overhead without even looking for it. He’s lifting his feet almost before his hands are in place, trusting to his hold to catch his weight as he swings himself up, and Micah whimpers a breathless sound of fright as his whole body goes taut with secondhand adrenaline.

“I’m serious,” he calls up, reaching out to touch his hand to the rough of the tree trunk just to reassure himself that he’s on the ground still, that all Elon’s death-defying maneuvers won’t bring Micah up to the few feet of height that would cripple him into absolute panic. “I don’t know if I can catch you if you fall.”

“You shouldn’t,” Elon tells him, but he’s not looking down at Micah’s concern; his chin is up, his face turned towards the sky as he braces a toe against the next branch and stands as easily as if he were standing on solid ground and not a branch barely as wide as his leg and swaying gently with each gust of wind. “You’ll hurt your shoulder again.”

“You’ll _fall_ ,” Micah protests, his voice going desperate on the futility of his ground-locked panic. He digs his fingers in against the bark of the tree, holds to the surface as if he can grant Elon stability by his contact with the bark. Elon reaches out to touch the trunk himself, bracing himself with his fingertips for just a moment; Micah can see the strain in his legs, the angle of intent in his position, and he barely has time to shout a wordless note of fright as Elon jumps up, framed in open air for a moment before he closes his hand on the next branch up the tree, a few inches too high for him to reach directly.

“ _Careful_ ,” Micah gasps, his heart pounding so hard in his chest he feels dizzy from the adrenaline of it. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

“I’m not going to fall,” Elon says, still without looking down at Micah. His hair is curling over the back of his collar; it’s getting long enough that it’s falling into his face, enough that he should either cut it or pin it back, but Micah hasn’t said anything about it yet. He likes the way it falls into a frame for Elon’s eyes, likes the way Elon’s smile has been coming easier with the length even if he knows those are both effects of time rather than causes for each other.

“I know,” Micah allows, still looking up so sharply the angle of his head aches along the back of his neck and strains in his throat. “But I keep forgetting that I know.”

Elon looks down at him. For a moment Micah can catch a glimpse of the blue in his eyes, of the soft consideration at his mouth; then Elon smiles, tips his head to the side, and shifts to settle onto the branch he’s on with enough contact that the knot of worry in Micah’s chest eases.

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” he says in nearly a normal tone. Over the distance Micah barely hears it, gains more of the meaning of the words from the soft at Elon’s eyes and the quirk of apology at his mouth than from the half-heard sound. Elon slides himself backwards by a handful of inches, leans back to rest his shoulders against the main trunk, and it’s only then that he looks away again, tilting his head back to rest against the tree while he gazes up at the sky.

“At least we know your shoulder’s better,” Micah says, softly enough that Elon won’t be able to hear him. He eases his hold on the tree trunk with some force of will, lets himself blink out of tight-wound panic with a still greater effort. Elon looks perfectly comfortable several feet above him, and in no danger of falling even to Micah’s worrying eyes; after a long moment Micah is able to make himself look away for more than a few seconds, is able to trust that Elon won’t go tumbling off his perch the moment Micah’s gaze isn’t there to hold him in place. His hands are shaking, he realizes as he pulls his touch away from the tree’s bark; frightened adrenaline is still lingering in his veins, still showing signs of its presence even though the flush of immediate worry has eased its grip on his heart. He turns around and leans back to press his shoulders to the tree, lets the trunk take his weight as he slides down to sit against the support of the ground.

There’s quiet for a moment. Micah can hear the sound of the wind rustling through the branches of the tree overhead; it’s too high up to catch at the weight of the hair brushing his shoulders, but when he tips his head back to blink up he can see the movement in Elon’s, the dark of the curls tumbling against each other until they look like a wave more than individual locks.

“Thank you,” Elon says, loudly enough that Micah can hear it clearly. He’s looking up at the sky still, not down to see the way Micah’s looking at him; Micah can see the smooth line of his throat bared to the sun, can hear contentment warm in the carrying sound of the other’s words. Elon leans back, slouches against the tree behind him without looking down; Micah watches the comfortable tilt of his shoulders as he settles into place, watches the shift of Elon’s lashes as he blinks attention up towards the blue of the sky.

Micah doesn’t answer. He tips his head back instead and presses against the support of the tree behind him; after a moment Elon glances down to see him looking up. The wind catches his hair, drags curls around his face and over the bright of his eyes for a moment, and then he smiles, so warm and so clear that Micah can see the way it crinkles the corners of his eyes even over the distance between them. Elon looks back to the sky, and Micah keeps looking at him, and when he presses his shoulders against the tree he imagines he can feel Elon’s warmth carried down the trunk to him.


	41. Share

They have to move with the second round of pairings.

It was always going to happen. The main Corps encampment is large but it’s not endless, and Micah knows that it’s more important that new partners feel like they’re part of the main group than for he and Elon to be centrally located with everyone else. It still feels a little strange to pack their things up into the neat rolls and bags they haven’t been in since before they met, to condense the tangle of their life together into a few bags easily carried between the two of them.

At least they don’t have far to go. Their new tent is still within the boundaries of the main camp, if tucked away in a far corner a greater distance from the main clearing than their first. Micah admits to some pleasure at the lack of immediate neighbors and the relative privacy of their position tucked away among the trees, until even the somewhat smaller confines of the space aren’t enough to put even the edge of a damper on his mood.

“I guess it’s because they’re thinking of us as a unit,” he says as he holds the tent flap open so Elon can take the lead into the space. It’s bare of any but a lamp in the far corner, the space so nearly identical to their old tent that Micah has a strange sense of deja vu as Elon drops his bags to the floor and sits to tug his boots off. The edge of the tent flap catches at his hair, ruffles the curls out of order as if it’s trying to make friends with them; it makes Micah smile, keeps him smiling even when Elon looks up to blink blue at him.

“It makes sense,” Elon says, leaving his boots outside the front as he draws his feet in so he can come up onto his knees instead and take the tent flap from Micah’s hand. Micah sets his bags down, drops to strip off his boots; the tent looks smaller with their bags in it, enough that he’s not completely sure how they’re going to fit their things into the space. But it’s cozy, it feels warmer than their last just from the press of the walls around them, and Micah doesn’t have any complaints about how near Elon is to him, so close that when he wobbles and starts to lose his balance he reaches out to steady himself against Micah’s shoulder. It makes Micah smile, makes him lean into the contact, and then his boots are off and he’s turning in completely, reaching out to wrap his arms around Elon’s waist as Elon lets the tent flap fall between the midmorning bright of the light and their faces. The tent is dim with the door shut, though not enough to require the assistance of lighting the lamp; Micah can still make out the color of Elon’s eyes and the pattern of sunshine-marked freckles spread across his cheekbones, and that’s enough for the moment.

“Here,” he says, sliding farther back into the tent and pushing their bags aside without turning to see where they’re going. Elon follows him, leaning forward to brace himself with a hand at the floor since there’s no soft of blankets to catch them yet. It’s enough; Micah just wants to have him close anyway, to bring the soft comfort of Elon’s smile in close enough that he can kiss against it, can print the shape of affection into the curve of Elon’s lips under his. When he reaches up his fingers land in dark curls, the feather-soft of Elon’s hair winding around his fingers without requiring any persuasion, and Elon sighs appreciation against his mouth and lifts his own hand to touch against the braids reinstated into Micah’s hair some days before. Micah’s still getting used to the feel of them again, readjusting the odd pressure against his scalp that the weight of the pattern in his hair exerts, but he likes the way Elon’s fingers fit over them, likes the way the pressure of the other’s hand falls into line with the plaits as if he has deliberately left room for his touch to rest against Micah’s scalp. The feeling makes him shiver, pleasure unwinding down his spine with the touch of Elon’s fingers in his hair, and they’re both tipping sideways, toppling to the floor with the impact eased by Elon’s bracing hand and Micah’s steadying elbow before they’re lying across the cool of the canvas, the texture of the tent floor catching at Micah’s sleeve as he reaches to fit his arm along the top edge of Elon’s shoulder.

“We have to go back out,” Elon points out, a reminder rather than rejection as he slides closer and fits his knee in against the resistance of Micah’s. Micah curls his fingers into Elon’s hair, lets the other’s leg slide between his, and when he says, “I know” it’s warm against the pressure of Elon’s mouth. “Just a few minutes.”

“Yes,” Elon agrees, and Micah can see his eyelashes shift into shadow as he leans back in to press a careful kiss to Micah’s mouth. Micah follows Elon’s lead in shutting his eyes to the distraction of vision, and for some time there’s just the give of Elon’s hair under his hand and the soft sounds Elon makes against the friction of his mouth. The dim of the tent feels like a wall between them and the world, until Micah can forget about the trainees they’ll be meeting later in the day and the first round of practice missions that always make Elon’s eyes go a little dark and sad at the edges. Right now there’s just the small space around them, the walls of the tent to keep out the rest of the world and Elon so warm and bright that their new tent feels more like home with every breath.

It’s Warnock’s voice that finally pulls Micah away. It’s in the distance, a conversation the captain is having with someone else in the main clearing, but the carrying resonance of it is enough to pull him back into himself and away from the shared space he’s been tangled in with Elon. Elon takes a breath, blinks the heat out of his eyes, and Micah indulges in one last kiss at the corner of the other’s mouth to make him smile before he slides free and straightens to sit up and smooth his hair out of telltale tangles.

“We’ll have to unpack later,” he observes as Elon shakes his hair back into order and moves towards the front of the tent to put his boots back on. “Guess we’ll be doing it by lamplight after all.”

“I don’t mind,” Elon says. He doesn’t turn around but Micah can hear the smile on the words, can picture the soft ease of the other’s smile without needing to see it. “All we really need for tonight is the bed.”

“I guess so,” Micah admits as he slides forward to join Elon in the entrance to the tent. It’s narrow enough that their shoulders bump together when he reaches for his boots.

“What side do you want to set it up on?” Elon asks, his head still bowed over the laces on his boots. “Our bed.”

Micah looks up. Elon’s eyes are hidden by the fall of his hair, even the pattern of his freckles covered by the curtain of it, but Micah can see his mouth curving on the same warm pleasure he can feel saturating his veins at the casual possessive, the collapse of what have ostensibly been two separate entities into a single thing.

“I don’t care,” he says without looking down at his boots or his fingers stalled still on the laces. “Whatever you want is fine.”

When Elon looks up at him, they’re sharing the same smile.


	42. Quiet

The muffle of the blankets isn’t enough.

Micah knew it wouldn’t be. It never is; he’s come to terms with that fact, has more or less accepted the next-day teasing that comes with the two of them being louder than they should and the tents being closer than Micah could wish. In the morning he’ll be red with embarrassment and Elon will be laughing into his hands and they’ll both try to be more quiet next time and will fail just as quickly as they did tonight.

Right now, Micah doesn’t care. He reaches out, curving in over the slope of Elon’s back so he can touch the other’s shoulder; if he spreads his hand wide he can span the shift of bone under the skin, can feel the heat of Elon’s body radiant under his touch. Elon shudders with the contact, trembling himself into strain over the blankets, and Micah draws back to take another thrust into him, slow enough that he can feel the tension of response ripple under Elon’s shoulders like a wave.

“ _Oh_ ,” Elon gasps, spilling the sound to heat over the blankets without even making an attempt to press his mouth down against the cover of them. His head is turned sideways, his eyes open but hazed out of focus; Micah’s very sure he’s seeing nothing of the tent wall in front of him. “ _Micah_.”

“Ssh,” Micah murmurs, even though he doesn’t mean it, even though Elon won’t be able to obey even if he succeeds at tracking the meaning of the words. “Someone will hear you.” He moves again, a slow rocking push with his hips to press himself flush against the quiver in Elon’s thighs, and Elon moans, his eyes falling shut as his shoulders flex and strain him against the floor.

“Micah,” broken apart, this time, cracked at the vowels like he’s losing the power of speech, like he’s forgotten how language works, like Micah’s name is a replacement for the moan he’d like to offer. Micah lets his touch at Elon’s shoulder slide away and down, flattens his palm against the blankets under them instead, and Elon shakes as he leans in over him, turning his face down against the blankets in a too-late attempt to stifle the whine of his breathing. “ _Micah_.”

“I’m here,” Micah tells him, words made meaningless by the weight of the emotion they carry. He could say anything at all and it would be the same, would warm the air to the same sun-bright heat these words do. He’s moving smoothly, maintaining the rhythm of his thrusts even as his weight tilts forward over Elon’s shoulders; Elon whimpers, gasps, and then Micah lets his hand slide from Elon’s hip down to the untouched heat of his cock, and the next sound Elon makes is a groan so low Micah can feel the sound vibrate in his bones.

“Elon,” Micah says, breathing the name against the dark hair so close to his lips, and when he moves it’s fast, hitting a pattern that falls into a counterpoint with the motion of his own hips. He can feel Elon tense with it, his body clenching tight around Micah even before the choked-off gasp of reaction makes it past his lips, and he turns his head again, breathing hard at the air around them like he can’t find the space in his chest for enough oxygen. He’s hot to the touch, the head of his cock barely slick with precome, and Micah doesn’t stop or slow; he’s moving faster if anything, his bracing arm starting to shake as he watches the flutter of Elon’s eyelashes and the motion of sound working against the line of his throat. Elon’s fingers tense, seize into a fist at the sheets, and Micah can see his eyes go wide, his expression falling blank in the breathless warm of expectation; then Micah turns his hand, and presses his fingers in close, and Elon jolts and moans and comes over Micah’s hold, his cock twitching hot as he turns back away to press his face against the sheets and gasp through the rush of sensation. Micah can feel him tensing in waves of pleasure, Elon’s whole body quivering through the rhythm of his orgasm, and it’s almost enough on its own to finish him off just as he is, still following that steady rhythm of thrusting into the other as the strokes of his hold ease in time with the relief sagging Elon heavy over the blankets.

Finally Elon takes a deep breath, lets it out with a sound so saturated on heat it sounds like a moan all over again, and Micah lets him go so he can brace his hold at Elon’s hip and hold the other steady for the last few thrusts he needs. Elon gasps a breath, shudders underneath him, and Micah presses his face against the curve of the other’s shoulder and falls from the edge of anticipation into the rush of orgasm all at once. His fingers press at Elon’s hip, his breathing drags into a groan at Elon’s skin, and for a few long moments there’s nothing in his head but the pulse of pleasure rippling through his veins and the sweat-slick heat of Elon’s body under him.

It’s some time before Micah can collect himself enough to move. Even when he does, it’s only by enough to let his hold on Elon go and collapse sideways over the top of the too-warm blankets to breathe as he blinks hazy inattention at the ceiling. Next to him Elon shifts, kicks his feet out over the blankets and turns onto his side; when Micah tips his head to look at him Elon’s watching him with his eyes soft and warm on the shadows of lingering pleasure. Micah reaches up to touch Elon’s mouth, to push the dark of his hair back from his features; Elon smiles at the contact, ducks his head to the touch, and Micah lets his hand linger, pushes his fingers farther into the sweat-damp catch of Elon’s hair around his hand.

“Someday we’ll have a house,” he says, feeling the certainty of the future under the words, the soft comfort of _someday_ forming itself on his lips. “Without any neighbors for miles, so we don’t have to worry about who can hear you.”

Elon huffs an exhale into the outline of a laugh. “I’m not the loud one,” he says. When Micah catches his eye Elon is grinning at him, the corner of his mouth drawn up in a way that says he’s trying to fight back laughter and failing. It makes Micah laugh on his behalf, warm and easy as if he’s taking the force directly from Elon’s thoughts; he pushes his hand over Elon’s hair, lets his touch trail down the curve of the other’s neck, and Elon tips his head into the contact, the tension of amusement fading from his lips as he sighs himself into satisfaction. He looks warm, looks sweet and happy and perfect, and for a minute Micah just stares at him, his attention playing over the familiarity of Elon’s face like he’s seeing it for the first time all over again. His hair is longer than it was, his skin dappled into summertime freckles, but his shoulders are the same, the slant of a diagonal outlining his comfortable slouch and his collarbones shifting into smooth curves just under the surface of his skin. His mouth is soft, dipping into the not-quite-frown he always adopts when he’s not thinking about it, and his lashes are as endlessly dark as ever, lying across the pale of his skin like shadows given physical form. And then Elon looks up, blinks himself into focus on Micah’s face, and Micah can see the lamplight catch the blue of his eyes, can see the color of a summer sky made permanent in Elon’s gaze even hours after sunset has cast the world into the dim shadows of night.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring, doesn’t realize they’ve both gone quiet in the focus of the other’s eyes on them. Then Elon takes a breath, and steadies the soft of his mouth into determination, and says “I’m not sorry,” with no lead-in or explanation.

Micah blinks. Elon’s voice is steady, firm with certainty; even before Micah’s brain has caught up to the relevance of the words it’s a comfort, reassurance like support at his back or the press of a hand at his shoulder. Then the meaning sinks in, and Micah catches a breath, and Elon’s still staring at him with intensity sharp in his gaze, and there’s only one thing he can say.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” he says, hearing his voice fall into a steadiness borne on the weight of the words, hearing sincerity ringing clear in his tone.

There’s more he could say. There are whole novels of words he could offer, explanations and details and a framework of poetry to encompass the soft of Elon’s smile and the curl of his hair. But Elon is watching him, and when the silence falls over them it feels right, like the hush of certainty between them is giving shape to all the things left unsaid. In the quiet Micah can hear the blankets rustle when he moves closer, can hear the faint sound of Elon sighing when he reaches to press a hand against his hair; and then they lean into each other, and fit into a kiss, and neither of them has to say anything at all.


End file.
